


You Are (Not) Free

by fencer_x



Series: The One That's a Pacific Rim AU [1]
Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 100,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Pacific Rim AU] Nanase Haruka was dropped from consideration for the Jaeger program years ago, and Matsuoka Rin has a disturbing track record with Drift partners--but desperate times call for desperate measures, and they're tasked to team up and help put a new prototype Jaeger through its paces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Nervous, Haru-chan?”

Haruka bit down sharply on the inside of his cheek, _tsk_ ing softly under his breath and shifting anxiously in place. “Don’t call me ‘-chan’,” came the almost instinctual reply, his monotone kept purposefully soft to keep a low profile. He’d been jerked off of his training shift in the Combat Room, and already his fingers itched, missing the tight bundling of bandages around his knuckles—it was capoeira week, and he couldn’t stop his balance from shifting rhythmically to a beat in his head.

Makoto must have realized his error in judgment, for he snorted softly and his wan smile waxed irritatingly fond. “I’m sure it’s nothing, you know; probably just a late recruit they want your opinion on.”

Haruka’s frown deepened, a tiny valley forming between his brows where they drew together; late recruits were a pain in the ass. _So annoying_. They never quite caught up to the cadets who enrolled during the regular semiannual rounds—it was a waste of time taking them on, in his opinion, when most wound up never even making it past the Pons training courses. What was the point in tutoring them mercilessly in every fighting style and weapons system the Jaeger Academy curriculum offered if they were never going to be placed in a position to implement what they learned?

They ought to just dump the lot of them into a Conn-Pod to begin with and see which ones merited a slot on the Kwoon room roster; separate the wheat from the chaff early on and concentrate their efforts on training the ones who’d be worth it in the end, _that_ was the way to go.

Something bumped against his shoulder, and Haruka’s head snapped around, frown slipping into one of confusion, but all he received in return was an amused expression of knowing admonition, and he didn’t need Makoto to open his mouth to hear the _manners, Haru-chan_ on the tip of his tongue.

He wasn’t supposed to be here; not _here_ , waiting for Marshal Sasabe to brief him personally on whatever he’d been pulled out of the Combat Room for, not tucked away in the bowels of a Shatterdome modeling judo stances and demonstrating the quickest way to reload an automatic weapon. He wasn’t supposed to be squirreled away underground seeing to the training of greenhorns not much younger than himself—but that was, he supposed, what happened when the PPDC had poured time and energy and money into training you, only to have you practically pass out from neural overload as soon as you so much as _looked_ at a Conn-Pod setup. Too valuable to let go, too weak to handle a Drift.

Makoto had been the one to convince him to hitchhike to the Tokyo Shatterdome and submit their names in the next nearest round of recruiting. The recruitment videos that seemed to play on almost constant loop in the windows of electronics department stores and inside train cars had helped spark an interest—childish minds were easily swayed by the glittering promises of fame and glory—but it hadn’t morphed into anything more than _wouldn’t it be cool if, Haru-chan?_ until their fishing village had had the bad luck to be part of the hundred-or-so kilometers of Japanese shoreline devastated by some kaiju or another’s inexorable trek toward a city center that _mattered_. Collateral damage, that was all Iwatobi had been; just bad luck.

The Academy curriculum at the Tokyo Shatterdome had been a passable distraction—it’d felt like they were doing something, at least, and Haruka had thrived under the crisp, austere training they’d been subjected to for weeks on end. The discipline they could handle, the regimens they all but _welcomed_ in a new world where monsters were real and humans were but tiny ants to be crushed under some great scaly heel.

And maybe if the training had stopped there, if all one needed to prove before donning a drive suit was competence in kickboxing and Krav Maga, then Haruka wouldn’t be _here_. But instead he’d been jerked out of the comforting pace of the Kwoon Combat Room and shoved into a Pons unit where he’d been barked at to _control your thoughts_ and _feel your partner_ , and no one ever thought to ask _why_ his sync ratios always shot over optimal into downright _dangerous_ territory or to warn him that you weren’t supposed to pry into your Drift partner’s mind, were just supposed to be a blank canvas that melded two minds into one to work in synchronicity. Instead, they had just scowled and scrawled _failure to command consciousness_ and _empath; risky Drift partner_ over his sheet and let him log a few hours in a test pod just to make him feel like he wasn’t a complete failure.

Makoto, for all his enthusiasm, though, hadn’t fared much better; perhaps it had been for the best that their scans had never been deemed compatible enough to merit even a trial Drift Sync, as it meant Haruka had been spared the look of utter devastation that would have surely crossed Makoto’s features when their Handshake sputtered and spun out of control just like all the others. The only time Haruka had ever broached the subject, though, with a muttered _sorry_ that Makoto had somehow understood, largely because he was _Makoto_ , he’d been met with a sad shake of the head and the reassurance that, “Piloting was never for me anyway, I think. I just…wanted to feel like I’d at least tried…”

Survivors’ guilt, it seemed, couldn’t override the innate fear--fear of being thrown into the line of fire to face those huge, hulking monsters certain to tear even the most experienced of pilots limb from mechanical limb--that gripped Makoto to the core when placed in a battle scenario (though who could blame him, really?), and suboptimal sync ratios along with Haruka being dropped from Ranger consideration were the final nails in the coffin of what might have been Ranger Tachibana of the Tokyo Shatterdome.

Instead, he was standing here next to Haruka in a long white coat, hair cropped short and close with a clipboard in his hand bearing a topsheet memo reminding Psych Analysts to retrieve written permission from the Shatterdome pharma Head before dispensing any medication to Rangers post-mission, under penalty of demotion for repeated infractions. _”It’s better to have me outside your head than in it,”_ he’d reminded Haruka the day he’d submitted his application to train as an Analyst, and while Haruka hoped he hadn’t shown it, the knowledge that they’d never get to work on a team together—not as a Drift pair, not as Doctor-and-Patient, not even in the same damn _division_ —had hung like his own personal albatross round the neck.  

What was he doing here, if not working toward the greater goal with Makoto at his side?

“Gentlemen,” a voice greeted sharply, and both men instantly snapped to attention, arms at their side and a practiced _Sir!_ their instinctive response. Marshal Sasabe Gorou strode forward, a squirrelly handler in a starched suit on his heels and a Ranger--he had to be, from his confident carriage and sharp gaze, despite the wrinkled civilian-wear--slouching bored at his side. The Marshal waved them off, nodding a greeting, and wasted no time in launching into the business at hand, directing his attention to Makoto while waving haphazardly at Haruka. “This is Nanase, then? The Fightmaster?” Haruka stiffened at the title; he knew it was all part of the pomp and circumstance afforded those in the PPDC, a fancy title to wow the crowds and impress the recruits he was charged with training, but he still longed for the blessed comfort of anonymity. He didn’t want to be anyone’s _master_ or glorified as a pilot—though at least piloting a Jaeger meant he was acting, approaching the problem head-on instead of wasting away behind the walls of the Shatterdome.

“Yes, sir. Top marks in Jaeger bushido from the Academy—“

“—but fucked up his Pons training. I know, I know—I read the file.” Haruka’s gaze flicked up to stare Marshal Sasabe straight on, brows twitching in annoyance. It was hardly a sensitive subject after three years, but it wouldn’t hurt to be a bit _less_ blunt in reminding an officer that he was just that: an officer—not a Ranger.

“He…he did have issues with sync ratios,” Makoto tried, apparently hoping his intervention might help Haruka save face. “But Nanase’s values tended to be _super_ optimal, overwhelming potential partners and throwing off the balance, so theoretically with the right partner, he might still—” But Sasabe was waving his hand again, this time to beckon the Ranger at his side closer in introduction.

“We’re more interested in the combat training we’ve poured into him today; and hopefully his piss-poor Pons performance won’t be an issue now. Matsuoka, c’mere.” He slapped a hand onto Matsuoka’s shoulder once he drew within clapping distance and gripped tight, giving a little shake. “Matsuoka here’s on loan from the Sydney Shatterdome.”

“Loan, sir?” Makoto began, and Haruka slid a glance his way; it was hardly uncommon for Rangers to be shuttled around the Ring of Fire to whatever Shatterdome had found itself shorthanded, and while Japan wasn’t hurting for Rangers between the Tokyo and half-finished Osaka stations, one of their own returning home from working abroad wasn’t unusual—though admittedly, one returning _alone_ was a bit off-script.

Sasabe nodded. “They just dealt with a Category IV aiming for Brisbane, so they don’t expect another attempt on Australia for at least a couple of months—and since we needed someone like Matsuoka here, well the timing was just too perfect to pass up.” He released Matsuoka’s shoulder with a satisfied _hmph_ , and Haruka watched the Ranger carefully behind a guarded expression. He hoped he wasn’t about to be tasked with putting Matsuoka through his paces in the Kwoon room just because Sasabe wanted to show off a bit. Haruka’s skills weren’t a prize to be flaunted, and he had recruits to get back to.

It took him a moment to realize—after a hand on his shoulder from Makoto and a worried _Haru?_ —that Sasabe was speaking to him now, and he snapped to attention again. “Sir?”

Sasabe just snorted, “Oh yeah; you’ll do,” and brushed past Haruka, his attendant scrambling behind him to keep up and Matsuoka tipping a nod to him with a pinch to the bill of the baseball cap he sported as he followed along. “Matsuoka’s file and the training particulars have been transferred to your comm tablet—I’d head back to your quarters and study it well if I were you. You’re to report to the Drivesuit Room at 0800 tomorrow.”

Haruka stared after the trio blankly, blinking in silence as he watched them turn a corner heading for the Jaeger bays. Once they’d disappeared, he slowly turned back to Makoto, brows furrowed in confusion. The apologetic smile he received in response, tinged with worry, was not helping to settle his nerves. “…Did I miss something?”

Makoto humored him, and Haruka wished he hadn’t: “Looks like you’ve been drafted. They’re putting you in a Jaeger.”

* * *

Haruka resisted the urge to bash his head in with the comm tablet he held above his head as he lay sprawled on his back in his bunk, waiting the final few moments for the data transfer to complete so that he could see what he’d just been tossed into. Most in his position likely would’ve been thrilled to finally be granted a seat in a Conn-Pod, but Haruka knew better. There was a _reason_ he hadn’t made it past the initial Sync testing in his Academy days; he couldn’t handle it. Sure, his sync ratios had skewed superoptimal rather than below par compared to his fellow cadets, but what did it matter if you overwhelmed your partner or they couldn’t keep up with you? It all amounted to the same end: no one could maintain a stable Drift with him.

He’d thought, stupidly, that if there were anyone he could Drift with, it would’ve been Makoto. Because that’s what they always said on the television specials and newspaper articles and internet blog postings: Drifting was sharing headspace with someone else, was letting someone into your thoughts to see your deepest, darkest fears, being naked before them and not being ashamed of it. Makoto was the one that _knew_ him, already knew what he was feeling before he ever thought to make his desires or distaste known. It was part of what kept them so close: Makoto knew everything about him and never judged him for it. But then the Academy swept away all of the pretty words that the media had filled their heads with, and suddenly it wasn’t about emotional closeness or comfort, it was about brainwaves and working in sync and _potential_. You were either compatible, or you weren’t. Still—it was hard to imagine how he’d ever be Drift Compatible with _anyone_ if not the one person in the world he felt the closest connection to, but there it was.

He frowned as his fingers traced the colorful lines of the graph displayed, a long horizontal line citing Matsuoka’s sync ratios at a flat 100%, narry a dip or swell for…fuck, was that _five_ Drift partners? He mouthed the description next to the graph as he read it to himself— _Ranger has proven Drift Compatible with every partner he has been assigned, with neural sync ratios of 100% ± 0.7%. NBOs should be aware, however, of Ranger’s inconsistent history of partners and strong risk of Drifter Bends._

The last term was hyperlinked, and Haruka brushed a finger over it, popping up a browser connected to the Shatterdome’s intranet; he was met with nothing but a Restricted Access page, though, and he huffed an irritated snort. So he was being teamed up with a mystery transfer from halfway across the globe who would quite likely, it seemed, find him hospitalized with whatever the hell ‘Drifter Bends’ were. It didn’t sound pleasant.

He flipped back a few pages through the file to Matsuoka’s personal profile, a sense of foreboding settling over his mind and refusing to budge the more he read. No records or ID numbers—Japanese _or_ Australian—available before being picked up following the Scissure attack on Sydney; remanded to a state-run pop-up children’s home caring for kaiju attack orphans for three years; enrolled at the Sydney Jaeger Academy once he was of-age; from there, advanced through the PPDC program smoothly and started being deployed on drops to back up veteran Rangers.

He scrolled through the list of associated personnel—the previous Drift Partners Matsuoka had apparently left in his wake—and skimmed their medical records; _acute psychosis, non-epileptic seizure, epistaxis, extreme physical exertion, catastrophic neural overload, discharged to palliative care_.

His stomach turned sickeningly; _this_ was what they wanted him to meld his mind with? Someone who, for all intents and purposes, _drove his partners insane_?

Haruka had never successfully Drifted with anyone outside of a few sparks of energy before the Handshake went haywire in his Pons sessions back during his Academy training, but he was quite certain that these kinds of effects—catastrophic neural overload—weren’t normal, weren’t _calculated risks_ that every pilot dealt with when suiting up. It was a suicide mission, getting into a Conn-Pod with this man.

He had his place—he didn’t like it, but he _had_ one. He had excellent battle reflexes, a tolerance for training recruits so long as he didn’t have to do much beyond model the stances and kata, and he kept his head down and did his job well. But every good pilot was needed, and stuffing him into a Jaeger with an unknown, someone whose scans looked promising on paper but who apparently fried the brains of anyone he initiated a Handshake with was a waste of a good Reserve.

He could practically hear his heart thrumming noisily against his ribcage, the blood in his veins a loud throbbing in his ears, and he closed his eyes and let the tablet drop to the bed. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until his vision sparked with purples and blues, then blinked the visions away as he stared up at the nut-and-bolted iron ceiling above him.

Fuck, he needed a dip.

* * *

This late in the evening, well after curfew for the Academy recruits, the natatorium on level 5F was empty, almost eerily silent save for the sounds of dripping water echoing off of the high concrete and metal walls and the soft hum of the generator keeping the water temperature constant. 

The water lapped gently against Haruka’s sides, splashing over his stomach and sliding down over his ribs as he lazily floated on the surface, staring up at the ceiling high above and wondering how many layers of concrete separated this room from the surface. If a kaiju struck right now, would he feel the shudder as it laid into the rock and soil above? Would he have time to break for the nearest ladder, or would the impact send debris raining down, knocking him out until one of the custodial staff found him floating facedown after real pilots had taken out the beast?

“So do you just come down here to float and angst or do you ever actually _swim_? Nanase Haruka.” Haruka leaned forward to tread water, his toes just brushing the pool bottom, and he glared when he found the Ranger—Matsuoka—settled cross-legged on one of the starting blocks and twirling his ball cap around on the tip of one finger.

“…This area’s for authorized personnel only.”

“And I think you just got told earlier today that I’m one of those personnel. Did you reserve the room or something?” Haruka didn’t deign to respond, and Matsuoka shrugged. “Then I guess that means I’ve got as much right to be here as you.”

He shifted up with fluid ease, stretching up to a height that had to be at least a couple centimeters over Haruka’s own build—and the fact that he noticed this at all was just another point that made him patently _not like_ Matsuoka. He glanced away with a soft huff and started sluggishly for the poolside ladder. “As you will, then. I was done anyway.”

“Hey—huh? Wait—” Matsuoka protested weakly, a whine edging his voice, and he started going for his belt with frantic fingers of one hand while the other awkwardly tried to tug his sweatshirt over his head. “Wait—wait, sorry, that was— _dammit_.” He grumbled something to himself before finally managing to unclasp the belt that had been giving him trouble. He cast a wary glance out over the water, as if reassuring himself that Haruka had indeed waited, and when he met Haruka’s untrusting gaze, he let a grin quirk at his lips. “We didn’t get a chance to talk earlier; thought we might be able to now.”

Haruka continued the silent treatment, wondering if there was such thing as a ‘safe distance’ from Matsuoka, given his history—but then, Marshal Sasabe had been practically groping him earlier and seemed no worse the wear for it, so whatever Matsuoka did to his Drift partners, it probably wasn’t contagious outside of a Conn-Pod.

“I’m not dangerous,” Matsuoka reassured him, his sweatpants pooling at his feet as he stepped out of them, a black pair of legskins with red piping down the sides showing that he’d come here fully expecting a swim, and Haruka wondered for a wild moment if Matsuoka could read his mind—if he was like Haruka, if _psychosis, seizures, catastrophic neural overload_ was what people like him _did_ to Drift partners when forced into a sync. But then Matsuoka beckoned him forward, reassuring, “I mean yeah, maybe I look scary on paper, but I’ve got a clean bill of health, and we’re not gonna be Drifting deep, not for what we’re being roped into.”

Which, he had a point; theirs was not a mission of attack, they weren’t even going to be drafted to defend a more seasoned pair. _Research_ , that was what the almost purposefully vague briefing memo he’d received had said; two pilots were needed to play guinea pigs for a Jaeger prototype so new they weren’t even sure if they ought to give it a Mark yet, just in case it wound up failing catastrophically and publicly embarrassing the PPDC.

Regardless, Haruka let himself drift a little closer to the line of starting blocks, and Matsuoka crossed his arms over his chest, tapping one foot playfully against the concrete. Haruka eyed him warily, raking his gaze from head to toe. “…And I’m supposed to trust you?”

Matsuoka shrugged, uncaring. “As I understand it, trust _is_ pretty key to a stable Drift—but if you don’t believe me, you can petition for a report from the Psych Analysts and NBOs. They don’t seem too worried.” Of course not; they weren’t the ones going into the line of fire, after all—and as if in response to this very point, Matsuoka cocked a brow. “Or are you not up to the challenge? Your file said you’ve never Drifted—”

“I have,” Haruka snapped almost petulantly, strokes growing a bit frantic as he paddled over to the edge. “I just…it’s never stabilized.” He fixed Matsuoka with a pointed glare. “I don’t kill my partners, though.”

“And I don’t kill mine; they all recovered—eventually. Or did you just go green and close the browser at the first sign that Drifting isn’t all sunshine and daisies?”

“Drifting isn’t supposed to be _dangerous_ —“

“Whoever told you you that was selling you a line of shit.” Matsuoka’s voice had gone cold and sharp, and Haruka didn’t need any heightened senses to feel the irritation radiating almost palpably off of him—but just as quickly, it dissipated, and Matsuoka was once again a bundle of confidence and cockiness and the greasy slide of flirtation bubbling up from under his words. Haruka shivered uneasily, and Matsuoka misinterpreted this for reaction to his comment. “…I know you’re—I mean.” He huffed to himself and settled his hands on his hips. “You’re here, aren’t you?” He waved a hand around the natatorium. “Jaeger piloting comes with all sorts of risks. What’s one more?”

He wouldn’t say it—wouldn’t embarrass everyone who was working on this project, wouldn’t call into question Makoto’s own judgment by saying something like _I don’t want to die_ , because that wasn’t what you did here on the front lines of what was well and truly a war (though it often felt like an extermination). But he wasn’t some _kamikaze_ pilot who would walk calmly into a situation he had next to no control over, not just to satisfy the PPDC’s curiosity and their quest for a better, faster Jaeger. He wasn’t _theirs_ ; he didn’t belong to them.

Matsuoka squatted in place, cocking his head. “Wanna race?”

“What?”

“You know—a race. First one to the opposite end and back wins; this is, what, a 50-meter pool?” He hopped off the starting block and rifled through the duffel bag he’d brought in with him, pulling out a pair of goggles that he quickly slipped on, snapping the band at the back of his head to ensure a tight fit.

Haruka sat in the water, staring mutely as Matsuoka readied himself excitedly—Haruka couldn’t _stand_ pushy people like him, always assuming that everyone would just be passively swept along in the wake of their effervescent charm. He had his own agenda, his own training regimen; if Matsuoka wanted to take advantage of the Shatterdome’s facilities, he was welcome to do so, and Haruka would even tolerate joint sessions if forced to, but he wasn’t about to be dragged into a _race_ of all things just for a new transfer’s amusement. 

Makoto wasn’t here to translate all of this into plain Japanese, though, and so Haruka was forced to explain as calmly as possible, “…I don’t want to. Don’t get me involved in your training.”

“C’mon, more fun this way,” Matsuoka wheedled absently, throwing an arm over his chest for a moment before switching to stretch the opposite shoulder. “Think of it as our first step towards getting to know one another.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Haruka muttered just loudly enough to ensure Matsuoka heard the comment. They were supposed to be partners—not rivals. Not that Haruka particularly wanted to be either, and he was still trying to work out just how exactly he was supposed to _not die_ when he was inevitably shoved into a Drift with Matsuoka in less than 12 hours. It seemed, though, there was no arguing nor reasoning with Matsuoka, so Haruka opted for the old standby of ignoring the problem until it went away.

He rolled onto his back, lazily pumping his legs until he was well into the center of the pool before slipping onto his stomach again, calmly stroking across the surface in a rough parody of freestyle as he allowed his senses to settle down again. No obsessing over the Conn-Pod test in the morning, no worrying about attention-mongering Rangers, no going over the schedule for next week’s Kwoon Room lessons. Just the calm and the water and the quiet under the surface that never demanded Haruka have a perfect sync ratio or clear his head to merge with it, just accepted him without judgment, letting him float, suspended, motionless—

A whooshing roar ripped through his concentration, and when his eyes flickered open, he caught the white wash of bubbles at the far end of the pool and a long, dark shape dolphin-kicking through the water, headed for the surface with a spray of foam in its wake. Matsuoka powered down the lane, closing in on Haruka fast—impossibly fast—and he mentally groaned his irritation, longing to just roll over onto his side and clench his eyes closed, to float suspended in darkness until Matsuoka tired of him and abandoned him to his thoughts.

But he couldn’t block out the thudding _whomp, whomp_ of Matsuoka’s strokes hitting the water, and the thick syrupy wave of anticipation and competition and eagerness bore down upon his mind mercilessly, growing stronger and more viscous as Matsuoka approached. He groped for air, his consciousness gasping for relief from Matsuoka’s insistent _need_ , and he breached the surface of the pool with a loud gasp, arms windmilling into a proper stroke before he could stop himself.

Matsuoka passed him at a sharp clip while he worked to gain momentum, not an easy thing to do from a cold start in the middle of the pool, but he wasted nothing when he hit the turn, Matsuoka’s eagerness shifting to excitement and thrill that sent little shudders of electricity deep into his muscles and sent him rocketing back down the lane, still trailing by a body-length. 

He could almost hear a mantra in his head urging him forward _come on come on come on come on_ until he couldn’t tell if it was echoes from Matsuoka or his own atrophied competitive spirit making a rare show. It was hard to remember that he didn’t care for races or competitions of any sort and that he most definitely didn’t care for Matsuoka when he was practically drowning in a tsunami of emotion saying just the opposite; racing was _fun_ , competition between equals was _fulfilling_ , and Matsuoka was _just_ what he needed.

He knew he’d lost before he _knew_ it, the mantra in his head falling silent and the anticipation and eagerness simmering down into a low boil of _told you so_ —and while he understood that there was no logical reason to feel irritated at being bested by someone who’d had a head start, especially when _he didn’t care about competition_ , it did little to lessen the sting of defeat. Just another disappointing display, another Ranger who’d look at him now and realize he never would’ve made the cut even if he’d been born half-Jaeger. 

“Here,” came a voice remarkably restrained with respect to the thrill of victory that typically laced the whoops and yells of Pilots back from successful missions. Haruka didn’t even meet his eyes, though, instead groping for the side of the pool to orient himself properly before hauling himself up and out by his own power.

Matsuoka took no offense, though, only snorting good-naturedly and noting, “I thought you might surprise me, Nanase, but…” He shook his head. “Nope, you’re exactly like I expected.” He squatted down until he was at eye level with Haruka, who struggled to catch his breath after the unanticipated exertion. “You’re all the same…everyone eventually fights back, in the end.” And the quirk of his lips this time was much more predatory and knowing and far less flirtatious than before; he seemed less like one of the overly cocky Rangers he shared an occupation with and more like the monsters they hunted. 

He reached out, brushing a thumb over Haruka’s cheekbone to smooth away a line of water that had been dripping down his tear line, but Haruka quickly batted the hand away roughly, wary of the knowing way in which he spoke. “…I swim how I feel, how _I want_. Not how someone else goads me into feeling or reacting.” He hoped it didn’t sound entirely like the lie it felt as soon as the words left his lips.

Matsuoka slipped on the mask of casual disinterest again, grin going cocky. “And here I thought we were supposed to be _partners_ , in it together and all that?”

Haruka rolled onto the balls of his feet and slowly stood, taking care to drip as much water as possible into Matsuoka’s duffel bag. “Swimming isn’t piloting a Jaeger. I’m not your partner here; I swim for myself.” He stalked over to the lockers just beyond the benches and yanked the one he’d requisitioned open, tugging out a fresh towel and shaking it to unfurl it.

“Then if I let you keep swimming for yourself…as you call it…” Matsuoka’s voice was right by his ear and carried an otherworldly softness that hid the sharp edge of challenge currently glinting off of Haruka’s mind—and his fist clenched in the towel as he struggled to swallow, not daring to turn around. “…will you pilot for me?”

He blurred his vision and reminded himself that it would be rather unwise and frowned upon if he broke the new Transfer’s nose and sprained a few ribs for show, reminding his heart to calm down—if he wanted to take out his frustration over the race in a pound of Matsuoka’s flesh, the man would surely respond to a cordial invitation to lunch and a session in the Kwoon Combat Room. No need to show his hand here. He took a breath, and then, “Of course not. Piloting isn’t for any one person, regardless. It’s for the good of everyone else; for humanity.”

Matsuoka took a step back, and the oppressive weight was suddenly blessedly gone. “Maybe it’s supposed to be like that; but we both know better.” He turned on his heel and strode over to one of the benches, straddling it and cocking his head as he watched Haruka collect his belongings. “Everyone pilots for himself—for glory, for fame, maybe just to feel like they’re doing something instead of curling up into a little ball and waiting to die. No one pilots for anyone but themselves.”

Haruka slammed the locker door shut with one hand, tugging on a loose pair of sweats with the other and trying not to lose the towel draped around his neck. “Then why should I be the first to be any different?” He cursed softly to himself as he nearly lost his balance when one foot got stuck on the material inside the pants-leg—and he might have toppled backward into an embarrassing heap had there not been a helpful hand at his elbow steadying him.

“Because,” Matsuoka reasoned easily as Haruka jerked his arm back, tugging on the ties to the pants to keep them up around his hips. “If you pilot for me...then I’ll show you a sight you’ve never seen before.”

Well _that_ was a new one.


	2. Chapter 2

Haruka was glad that Marshal Sasabe—nor anyone near his pay grade—was not around when he and Matsuoka reported to the Jaeger bay the next morning for their briefing, as it meant he didn’t have to disguise his all-too-apparent distaste for the research team’s diarrhea of the mouth when it came to detailing all of the bells and whistles that their latest prototype would be outfitted with.

It wasn’t necessarily that he didn’t care—there had been a time, he wouldn’t deny, when he’d been as wide-eyed as any child the world over at the thought of giant robots piloted by people just like himself, out there fighting monsters with plasma cannons and pulse launchers and sting blades. It was something right out of any _shounen_ robot anime in the past half-century, so he couldn’t profess to be utterly uninterested in the concept.

It was simply that Hazuki’s voice had a tendency to _grate_ after a while—where “a while” generally stretched only for a good thirty seconds or so, a time during which rather than diving right into the briefing he liked to regale the team with tales of what he’d had for breakfast, the strange ice cream-induced dream he’d had the night before, and how _Rei-chan won’t let me mount a mortar cannon beneath the Conn-Pod station_.

Mercifully, Hazuki’s all-too-overwhelming personality was balanced quite proficiently by the head Jaeger Engineer, a quiet sort by the name of Ryuugazaki whose conversations in Haruka’s presence tended to largely consist of _Nagisa-kun, please_ or _Nagisa-kun, the weapons run-down, if you will?_ or _Nagisa-kun, honestly—you must realize that the shoulder struts can’t possibly support a triple-tiered missile launch system_.

Today, though, the head Weapons Specialist and Jaeger Engineer were working in remarkable synchronicity, both practically tripping over themselves to explain the ins and outs of the submersible lying limp and helpless as a fish out of water before them—Omega Free.

“I realize, naturally,” Ryuugazaki was apologizing—yelping as he nearly tripped and fell on his ass because he was walking backwards and gesticulating wildly, “that your Jaeger hardly seems beautiful in this state, but you have to allow yourself to envision what it will look like—how well it will _function_ —in its natural habitat.”

“What Rei-chan _means_ ,” Hazuki interrupted waving a clipboard and nearly slapping Ryuugazaki in the face with the action, “is that she’ll only show her _true_ potential once we get her out in the field!” His cheeks flushed with pride in his accomplishment, and Haruka wanted to take a few steps back just for some respite from the blinding smile he was touting.

Matsuoka frowned at Haruka’s side, raking a dubious gaze over the hull—which was still marred by welding burns that hadn’t been buffed out yet—and said what Haruka was thinking: “…You mean you expect us to pilot this thing _in the water_? You want us, in this tin can, going up against a kaiju that’s going to rip us apart like a sheet of foil?”

It was a fair question; the Omega Free was hardly tiny, as grand in length and breadth as any of the terrestrial Jaegers, and while he’d mostly tuned out Hazuki’s rundown of the weapons it would be outfitted with, he did remember it being a rather impressive line-up comprised of equally vicious long- and short-range armories. His first thought had been _lobster_ when the bay doors had been cranked open to let their little group inside, but Hazuki had quickly snapped that they’d gone for _scorpion_ , outfitting the whiplike tail with a wicked jolt cannon stinger that, Hazuki assured them with a leer, would _totally fuck up the electrical impulses_ of any kaiju they came across.

Which would be all well and good if he and Matsuoka had been Drift Partners—hell, if Haruka had been a Ranger _period_. As it was, he was just the Tokyo Shatterdome’s Fightmaster, liked to take a dip in the natatorium on 5F at the end of the day, and had a knack for picking up on the emotions of those around him (whether he wanted to or not). He wasn’t supposed to be in a Conn-Pod, and he _definitely_ wasn’t supposed to be in one 11 kilometers down trying to shove the next Onibaba or Tailsplitter back into the Breach before it made landfall.

More to the point, they weren’t supposed to be really _Drifting_ at all—Matsuoka had said, had _assured_ him, that they wouldn’t be Drifting deep for the maneuvers they’d be expected to execute in the Jaeger, and Haruka had for some strange reason believed him. Largely, he argued, because he really didn’t have a choice, and Matsuoka had seemed oddly insistent on Haruka’s acquiescence, as if refusing him was remotely an option and not something that would either see him transferred to the McMurdo Shatterdome or turned out of the PPDC altogether.

Ryuugazaki took up the baton here, sliding his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with a confident smirk. “You needn’t worry—you’ll both be _thoroughly_ acquainted with Omega Free’s unique systems, and she’s been completely designed from the ground up to not only to be hydroviable but to _thrive_ there!” He ducked his head. “Admittedly, it may take some time for you to adjust to Omega Free’s Conn-Pod system, as it’s a world away from the basic layout and setup used in land-based Jaegers that you’re likely familiar with—” Here, he directed his gaze to Matsuoka, and Haruka fought back a flash of irritation. “—but I’m confident that you’ll take to her like…” He bit his lip and shared a knowing look with Hazuki, whose expression seemed equally amused. “…a fish to water!”

The peals of laughter the pair shared distracted them from the way Haruka rolled his eyes—but then Matsuoka had the poor taste to actually _snicker_ at the joke, and he couldn’t resist reaching out to test whether or not the amusement was genuine. It was.

“Don’t encourage them,” Haruka warned, glancing around the bay at several other Jaegers in various states of repair, most on loan from other Shatterdomes and farming out the repairs to the Japanese branches before the war machines made their way to larger bases of operations like Hong Kong and Sydney.

Matsuoka continued to watch Ryuugazaki and Hazuki try to collect themselves, but his smile curled in on itself a bit, betraying that he’d heard Haruka loud and clear. “Can’t help it; their enthusiasm is infectious.” He dared a sidelong glance at Haruka. “And here I thought you’d know all _about_ being susceptible to the emotions of others.”

Haruka ignored the jab, opting to avoid engaging Matsuoka in conversation when not strictly necessary.

Hazuki released a soft huff of recovery, cheeks still flushed with mirth, and cleared his throat as he slipped into a more serious mode. His speech came just as fast now, but his words carried an edge, and something inside of Haruka sat up and took notice at the audible shift from “arms groupie” to “Weapons Specialist.”

“Most of the Jaegers in service are built for land-based assaults; they can function underwater, as they’ve had to do to defend the Miracle Mile, and some are even equipped with rocketry for short bursts of flight, but they’re all _humanoid_. Omega Free is the first Jaeger built with a water-based assault in mind.” He smirked to himself, obviously proud of their achievement. “We’ll bring the fight right to their doorstep!”

Ryuugazaki picked up the conversation as smoothly as a relay exchange. “Omega Free is meant to act as a long-range defense, patrolling the Breach and weakening if not outright dispatching any kaiju that pokes its nose through from the Anteverse. Her pilots will work in tandem to manipulate the claws and tail, much in the way of a sea creature.”

Haruka raked a disinterested gaze over the Jaeger, frowning at the sparks that flew up where a worker was welding seams between two sheets of the hull. “…And countermeasures against hull compromise…?” A good 11,000 meters down an ocean trench was _not_ where one wanted to spring a leak, unless the PPDC wanted their Rangers coming back in a bentou box.

“Oh, don’t worry about that! We won’t be sending you anywhere near the Breach!” Hazuki reassured them brightly, and Haruka didn’t miss that he failed to answer the question. Perhaps Matsuoka’s tendency to drive his Drift Partners off the deep end was the least of his concerns.

* * *

Haruka shifted uncomfortably in the Drivesuit—irritated at the complete lack of give and how stifling it was beneath the layers of electrosensitive fabric and body armor. He snapped his attention to the side when he heard a soft snort from where Makoto stood monitoring a sensor readout, and his irritation piqued at the knowing smile on his face.

“We’ll have new Drive Suits prepared special for Omega Free before we send you out into the field—today’s just to make sure you’re able to play nice inside a Conn-Pod.” Haruka was never sure if he loved or hated how perceptive Makoto could be—sometimes it felt like the guy got a little too cocky just because he could read Haruka like his own personal HUD—but it was always relieving to know Makoto would, at the end of the day, do his dirty work for him. “We’ll pump some coolant through the suits once you’re hooked in, too,” was the added reassurance, and Haruka relaxed a hair. If he had to be strapped in next to an unknown in his first real Conn-Pod, he at least wanted to be comfortable. Maybe he could just close his eyes and imagine he was in one of those lovely cool-water baths he liked to take.

An attendant fitted him with an earpiece, and suddenly Makoto’s voice was a lot closer and clearer, this time veiled behind a screen of crackly radiowaves. _“Think of it this way, Haru-chan; no one’s relying on you to save the world. Even if you get thrown into the thick of things, it’ll probably just be because all the other pilots are already dead and the world’s doomed anyway.”_ He frowned deeply at Makoto’s attempt at gallows’ humor, huffing and unfocusing his gaze as he allowed the attendants to finalize the hookups.

At the station to his side, Matsuoka was clearly enjoying being back in his element, and Haruka tried to recall from his file when he’d last seen action. A Conn-Pod tech stepped forward with a helmet in hand, and Haruka dutifully ducked his head, grateful for the distraction of the lead-up to the Drift to keep his mind from wandering.

This was all new for him—the Sync Testing back during Academy training had been conducted largely in simulators, and while they’d been allowed to examine the Jaegers and Conn-Pods, actually suiting up for a real honest-to-god Drift had been something the Instructors had always dangled over the recruits’ heads to keep them striving to be the best, to be able to step inside one day and know they belonged there.

Haruka most definitely didn’t belong here, even less so with someone like Matsuoka at his side, but numbers didn’t lie, and Matsuoka—who’d never failed a Drift in his career—was the only person who could take him there.

He released a little grunt of discomfort as the spinal clamp settled into place, stretching up straight and shifting as if trying to dislodge an itch at the small of his back, and he heard Matsuoka chuckle sympathetically in his ear over their radio link. _“It feels weird, but you get used to it,”_ he offered helpfully, but Haruka ignored him--this time, not because of petulance or irritation, but because his visor was clouding over with a thick, viscous liquid. The relay gel obscured his vision for only a moment before a jolt of electric current buzzing through it cleared the film away, and Matsuoka was leaning forward as far as he could to catch Haruka’s expression, a knowing grin on his lips. _“It’s fun, right? Totally different from the simulator.”_

“Fun” was not something Haruka dealt in, and no amount of _newness_ to the experience could overshadow the knowledge that this was all gearing up for a neural connection with someone he didn’t know, didn’t trust, and didn’t _want_ to know or trust. He wasn’t supposed to be in a Conn-Pod, definitely wasn’t supposed to be in a Jaeger, and one way or another either he or Matsuoka was going to wind up in the medical bay before this ridiculous song and dance was over--

 _”Haru-chan, calm down; your vitals are spiking and the medical officers are giving me looks.”_ Makoto’s voice was calm and soothing but with a definite edge of _orders, soldier_ , and Haruka opened his mouth, breathing in and out and fogging up the visor with each exhalation. _“Just relax—clear your mind, try not to think of anything--and trust. I wouldn’t let them put you in there if I didn’t think you—or Matsuoka—could handle it.”_ Of course he wouldn’t, _of course_ he wouldn’t, but Makoto had never Drifted, Makoto didn’t seem to know half the things Matsuoka seemed to--and sure, it could just be all bravado on Matsuoka’s part, but Haruka never felt it from him, it always felt dark and genuine and like an _old soul_. Like Matsuoka had seen more than he ought to have for the quarter century he’d been alive. Maybe all Rangers were like that, though—what did Haruka know?

A flat, robotic female voice alerted all to _prepare for neural handshake_ , and Haruka tensed instinctively, eyes darting around—they weren’t in a Jaeger, just a Conn-Pod fitted up to test their real-world compatibility, but the energy was there all the same, the adrenaline pumping hard and fast, and the knowledge that he was about to have his consciousness invaded by another forefront at his mind. Maybe if he’d trained for this, maybe if he’d gone fifty rounds in the Simulator with other pilots, maybe if he’d had a hand in bringing down five kaiju like Matsuoka, he’d be able to handle this, but _shit_ the countdown was at five—four—three—two— _one_ —

* * *

It took him several long moments to realize what he was looking at.

A long, white strand of beach, teal blue breakers crashing along the shoreline stretching out into the distance, a blond toddler in the sand next to him tearing apart a sandcastle with a little plastic shovel—but when Haruka reached out to brush a hand over the crumbling turrets, the fingers in his field of view were long and slender, tipped with nails painted a vibrant crimson with a ring—tiny diamond studs glittering in the failing sunlight—on his fourth finger. A woman’s hand, not his own.

A spike shot through his brain, hooking in and jerking him through a mishmash of thoughts and memories, until he paused again, this time watching a baseball fly through the air straight for his face, and he whipped up a hand instinctively—hissing in pain as the impact shuddered through him when he caught the ball in his gloved hand. The child who’d thrown it—a young girl, blue-eyed brunette—chirped something high-pitched and giddy that he couldn’t understand (English? He’d never been terribly good at it in school), and a chuckling response in a soft, smooth baritone that was most _definitely_ not his voice burbled up from his throat.

He winced as his mind was sharply jerked from this memory, slowing just enough to drag his consciousness through yet another—this time, raucous clapping as the audience around him stood to give a standing ovation, and a woman ( _my wife_ something told him) leaned forward with a hand on his arm to bend his ear, but he still couldn’t understand the words—and just as quickly he was out again, back in the ether and groping for mercy, for reprieve from this onslaught of consciousness and memory and thought and feeling.

He reached out with his hands, but they were never his own—this time olive-skinned and covered in latex gloves with bloodstains on them, this time a dark tone turning a wedding ring over in the palm, this time time a pale white with soft freckles over the knuckles and fingers laced between others bigger and thicker and warm and tender—

Too many scenes, and this had _never_ happened in the Simulator, never was mentioned in any of the training scenarios leading up to the Drift sync testing. He was always the one who reached out and overwhelmed his partner, but this, this was empathy _jacked up to ten_ , like he’d had a neural spike shoved into his frontal lobe and the juice had been cranked up. He was feeling everything and anything and it was just a strange, incongruous amalgamation of memories and thoughts from a dozen, no— _dozens_ of different people, all bearing down on him at once and jerking him from one thought to the next before he could so much as catch a breath.

The one thing he noticed, though, through it all...was that in the waves of consciousness battering him like a piece of driftwood in stormy seas, not once, not once in _any of those memories_ did he feel Matsuoka. _None_ of them were his, none of them had his mark on them or whatever the hell the proper terminology was supposed to be. He knew what Matsuoka felt like, had practically drowned under his cockiness and overbearance and that slimy slick twinge of flirtation he laced in his speech--and none of it was here. He felt _all of these memories_ , brushed tendrils of thought over each and every one he was thrust into, and Matsuoka was never there. Not just _distant_ , not just muddled and hidden, but _not there_.

He was used to being able to sense his partner _too_ keenly, used to being the one who reached out for that neural handshake, groped for a connection—and wound up shoving them off a cliff, each tiny movement of his mind magnified a hundred-fold and ending any hopes he’d ever had of being useful, of being _necessary_.

Here, inside this headspace or whatever the hell it was—a mind _prison_ more like it, a torture chamber inside the brain where he was ducked and doffed through a dozen different mental relays--it was impossible to even think of retaliating. Everything was superficial, as if this—this _space_ thought it could just shove these memory rolls at him and convince him they were somehow connected, that it wasn’t a poor facade trying to distract from how cold and distant everything was. Utterly inhuman, non-self; he was _glad_ Matsuoka wasn’t here—he wouldn’t have wished this experience on his worst enemy.

He felt something tugging him down, suggestive but not overly insistent, and he curled in on himself again and again in response to the invitation, twining himself impossible tight to block it all out as he sank into his own private bubble. Down, down into the darkness where it was cold still but at least _silent_ , the bottom of a deep pool where the memories that were not Matsuoka’s but were still somehow invading their Drift were mere flashes of light on the surface that he simply had to turn away from.

And then—something shifted, strained, and snapped—and suddenly the memories were no longer flashing innocently from far away but shadowing over like a stormcloud blocking the sun as a front rolled through. Ominous darkness that wasn’t the least bit comforting or relaxing snaked through down from the surface in inky black tendrils, and Haruka shook his head frantically, gasping for breath when he knew there was no air down here, knew there was no need to _breathe_ in here, and one of the tentacles caught him by the ankle, twining around his calf and thigh and hips and snaking across the flat expanse of his belly and chest until it pried open his lips and _tore into him_ —

_”NANASE!”_

* * *

He woke to beeping; not his alarm clock, for once, nor the blaring klaxons announcing an inbound kaiju, but the soft, mechanical _bip...bip...bip_ of a monitor.

“...Welcome back to the land of the living, Haru-chan.” He tilted his head slowly to the side, blinking blearily until Makoto’s face came into focus, and he opened his mouth to grouse _don’t call me ‘-chan’_ , but what came out instead was a raspy, grating whisper, and he grimaced. “Yeah,” Makoto chuckled, “I suppose you feel pretty crappy.”

He lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, wincing when the IV drip in his arm tugged irritatingly. “…How long was I out?”

Makoto shifted closer, pulling the chair he occupied up alongside Haruka’s bed. “Twelvish hours. Not too long.” Haruka gave him a _look_ , and Makoto chuckled softly. “Just trying to lighten the mood; you look like you could use some good humor.”

“I’d rather use a toilet…” he mumbled, feeling his bladder protest as he shifted.

“Should I have fitted you with a catheter as well?”

Haruka waved him off, too tired to field the further attempt at humor, and flicked his gaze around the room; all of the other beds were empty from what he could hear—for now—and Makoto had pulled a privacy curtain around his bed, likely to keep the med bay personnel from gawking at them. He slowly tested his appendages from toes on up, relieved that he obviously wasn’t here because he’d had a limb amputated or something. There were sensors tacked to his chest, connecting him to an EKG machine, but beyond that and the lingering sense of exhaustion one felt after taking an afternoon nap that lasted too long, he felt…fine, really.

“…Do you…remember what happened?” Makoto’s voice was hesitant, a grave note laced in his words that produced a weak but palpable mental echo of worry, and Haruka tensed, his heart feeling like it skipped a beat or three despite the EKG readout showing strong and steady.

He swallowed thickly and tried to remember—12 hours…Matsuoka, the Conn-Pod test. Had something gone wrong? That was a ridiculous thing to wonder; of _course_ something had gone wrong—or else he wouldn’t be here. Matsuoka clearly hadn’t suffered the same, and he _tsked_ to himself, a mental _told you so_ echoing in his mind. He shook his head, though, and Makoto’s shoulders slumped.

“Have you…ever heard of Drifter Bends?”

Haruka’s eyes widened perceptibly, and he shifted back on the bed to sit up straighter, the pillow cushioning his back. “That…I saw it, in Matsuoka’s file. Just the name; access was restricted.”

Makoto rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah; I probably should’ve brought it up before, but you didn’t have clearance then, and it was supposed to be a shallow Drift, and…” He trailed off, clearly realizing he was stalling, and wiped a hand over his face before collecting himself. “It’s not an official term or anything, just something thrown together after it became more than just an isolated incident, but…well, you know how divers can get the bends—decompression sickness—if they come up too quickly from depth? Localized pain in the joints, inflammation, headaches, vertigo, that kind of thing?” A nod. “With Matsuoka, it’s like…that. Just, it’s Drift-related.” When understanding failed to dawn perceptibly on Haruka’s face, Makoto regrouped, trying a different tack. “They think—I mean, the people who study this kind of thing—it’s what happens when you pull someone out of a deep Drift too quickly. Rather than a by-the-book shutdown of the neural link, it’s more like just pulling the plug. Which is…what we had to do with you. And Matsuoka.”

“You…pulled my plug.”

“We had to; you were—” Makoto ran a hand through his hair, frustration palpable as it radiated off of him in waves, but all he showed on his features was a wry smile. “We think…you fell out of phase first, and you’re—well, you’re _you_ , you know?” How could Haruka _forget_? “You fell out of phase, and you kind of…latched on to Matsuoka, I guess, and pulled him down with you. Your sync rate shot through the roof, you should’ve _seen_ it, it was—” He quickly stopped himself with a shake of the head, though. “Whatever, just—the point is that there could’ve been irreparable…I mean, we pulled you out in time, so you’ve just been sedated, that’s all. No lasting harm. So just…” He eyed Haruka warily, evidently uneasy with the silence stretching between them. “…Haru?”

Haruka frowned to himself in confusion, trying to piece together the shards of memory in his mind—it was like recalling a quickly fading dream, and each time he reached out for something to grasp on to, another bit flitted away beyond reach. “No…”

“No…what?”

“No, that’s not…” He shook his head, closing his eyes to try and make the pieces _fit_. He didn’t remember much, but he remembered _enough_. Enough to know Matsuoka hadn’t been there, certainly hadn’t been _pulled down_ , pulled out of phase by Haruka. He hadn’t felt anything he recognized, and he _recognized_ Matsuoka. The only thing he remembered slicing through the dark and cold and _wrong_ was… “I didn’t pull him down. It wasn’t me.”

Makoto’s brows drew together, and he glanced uncertainly at his chart. “I…I know maybe it didn’t _feel_ like that—but you don’t know your own strength, Haru-chan. And—the numbers suggest that—“

“I _didn’t do it_ ,” he snapped with more force than was likely merited, and he winced, gentling his tone. “That’s not what happened; I was there, I _know_.”

Makoto was silent for a long moment before finally allowing, “…Then what _did_ happen?” And Haruka hadn’t the faintest clue how he was supposed to respond to that, because what the hell did he know?

He fisted his fingers in the bedsheets, clenching tightly. “…Something…pulled me down.”

“…Something pulled you out of phase?” Makoto tried slowly, and while that hadn’t been what Haruka had said, he nodded nonetheless.

“He didn’t pull me down…” he repeated, conviction growing in his chest as he voiced the words aloud. “He didn’t pull me down. Matsuoka…I think he tried to come in after me.”

_NANASE!_

He winced as the scream lanced through his head again, just as clear and keen but distant, like from far away. It couldn’t hurt him now, not here in the med bay beneath layers of concrete and iron and sod. The inky black tendrils of overwhelming _wrong_ weren’t inside him, it was all in his mind.

Makoto was muttering something to himself, his voice muffled like through a pane of glass, and he flipped through the papers on his clipboard with an edge of confusion knifesharp along his psyche. Haruka was tired of confusion right now—and mostly just wanted to be alone for a bit, so he slipped back down onto the mattress, pulled the thin, rough sheet over his shoulder, and feigned sleep until he heard Makoto softly shift the chair away to leave him in peace.

* * *

Matsuoka was exactly where Haruka had expected—and dreaded—he’d find him. 

The natatorium was empty, but given that it was nearly midnight and most of the Shatterdome non-essential personnel had curfew to keep, this was hardly unexpected.

Matsuoka was settled at the water’s edge, eerily backlit by the pool’s lighting as Haruka approached from behind, and when his boot scraped over the concrete flooring audibly, Matsuoka stiffened, but didn’t say anything, instead letting his shoulders hitch as if he were trying to curl in on himself with shame. It was hard to read him from this distance, but getting a closer brush on his emotions would require narrowing the gap between them—and that was something Haruka was not quite sure he was prepared to do just yet.

“…Makoto said I fell out of phase,” he offered instead, punctuating the announcement with, “Sorry.” When Matsuoka failed to respond promptly enough, Haruka huffed in annoyance and forced his feet forward, drawing up beside Matsuoka and settling down onto the cool concrete beside him. The chlorine scent burned his nostrils—but it was better than the aseptic stench of relay gel or the diesel fumes from the Jaeger bay. He glanced over and saw that Matsuoka had his toes dangling in the water, sending little ripples out echoing across the quiet surface—and without any preface whatsoever, he asked, “Why don’t you have any memories?”

The ripples stopped, and this close, he could slice the tension oozing off of Matsuoka with a knife. “…I have plenty of memories.”

Haruka frowned at the response. “Don’t play dumb. Those weren’t your memories.”

Matsuoka cocked his head to the side, raking a wary gaze over Haruka out of the corner of one eye, and Haruka instinctively curled his dominant hand into a fist, so clear was it that Matsuoka was one false move away from sweeping a leg out to knock his head against the concrete and leave his body floating in the pool. “…What makes you think that?”

Haruka kept his gaze locked on Matsuoka and his body tense should they come to blows, for whatever reason. This wasn’t a misunderstanding or confusion, this was _subterfuge_ , and they clearly both knew it. “They didn’t feel like your memories.”

The wash of relief echoed across the space between them, and Haruka felt the tension leave his shoulders as a tangible weight lifting. His fingers unclenched, and breath came easier—and Matsuoka shook his head with a derisive snort. “And what exactly are _my memories_ supposed to feel like?”

Haruka couldn’t answer that—because _like you_ seemed too simplistic, and a line-item description seemed too much, too fast. 

Matsuoka clearly had meant it as a rhetorical question, though, for he rolled his eyes and returned his focus out across the water; with the atmosphere somewhat settled, Haruka allowed himself to do the same, frowning when Matsuoka listed to the side and bumped his shoulder. “It’s why they stuck me with you, you know.” And Haruka didn’t know; what did Matsuoka’s disturbing lack of memories of his own, not ones culled from the people he’d come in contact with over the years, have to do with him? “Because I’ve never failed a Drift. I’m the only one you can Drift with.”

And that made absolutely no sense at all, confusion evident in his tone. “We didn’t Drift, though. You pulled me out of phase.”

Matsuoka’s smile grew sharp and knowing. “I thought _you_ were the one who fell out of phase?”

“I said that’s what Makoto told me.”

“And?”

“And…I didn’t, though.” His confusion took on a note of concern, and he wondered if Matsuoka could feel it too, somehow, for he felt it bouncing back, like an echo—familiar, but weaker. “…I was there, and you were, too, I think.”

Matsuoka’s expression clouded over, and Haruka felt a flash of panic, recalling the way the stormy blackness had rolled in, darkening the glinting memories along the surface. “ _Where_?”

Haruka shook his head slowly. “I…don’t know. It wasn’t the Drift, not…the headspace, as I understand it.” He grimaced; god, he sounded like a recruit. “Just…dark. And confusing and cold, and…something else.” _Something else, trying to find me; I think it did._ “I didn’t feel alone…” Matsuoka swallowed thickly, and now the panic was back and Haruka’s instincts were on edge again, thoughts of anything he might be able to use as a weapon flashing like fireflies in his limbic centers. ”I felt you there.” Matsuoka’s brows drew together, and the panic lessened a fraction. “The real you, not the memories you tried to pass off as yourself.”

Matsuoka frowned, staring at Haruka for a long moment before drawing his knees to his chest and settling his chin on them, arms wrapped tight. He looked very small and vulnerable, but the echo of the animalistic fight-or-flight response Haruka had sensed still reeked like the scent of mold and sweat. At length, Matsuoka ground out, “…That’s not a place for you to be. You don’t belong there.”

Haruka would have agreed with him in a heartbeat—if there were any place a human belonged _less_ , it was in that space, like he’d fallen between the cracks of a proper Drift and been forgotten, sought after by whatever lurked in the dark beyond the shell of the neural headspace Rangers shared in a Jaeger. But it was the surety with which Matsuoka announced this that left him feeling uneasy, and maybe that was the _old soul_ that Haruka had felt before: maybe Matsuoka knew where he’d been.

Maybe that was how he’d known where to find Haruka to pull him out again.

Haruka opened his mouth to put a voice to his concerns, but Matsuoka cut him off by shifting gracefully into a stance, leaning to the side with an elbow up to stretch his triceps, one then the other. Haruka watched him squat to pull a pair of goggles from his bag, frowning as he saw Matsuoka’s intention written clearly on his face. “C’mon, let’s race.”

“Again with the racing?” Haruka muttered sourly. “I told you, I don’t—“

But his complaints were cut off by the sharp crackle of a speaker summoning the both of them directly to the Drivesuit Room immediately.

Matsuoka clapped him on the shoulder as he shuffled past headed for the locker room to change, offering with a wave, “No rest for the wicked, I guess.”


	3. Chapter 3

Staring blankly at the empty Conn-Pod hanging in the Jaeger bay just as he’d left it the day before, Haruka was overcome with an unsettling sense of deja vu and found his eyes darting nervously around, half-expecting Hazuki and Ryuugazaki to come toddling out again to brief him and Matsuoka on the wonders of Omega Free like some twisted groundhog day scenario where he’d be shoved again and again and again into the pilot stand next to Matsuoka only to wake up feeling exhausted and violated in the medical bay, simply to repeat the process all over.

But instead of the Weapons Specialist and Jaeger Engineer, this time they were met at the entrance to the hangar by the Marshal and Makoto, neither one of whom looked entirely thrilled to be there—but then, Marshal Sasabe didn’t really have any other expressions. It was Makoto’s mien that was the more discomfiting of the two, as it meant he was worried about something. Makoto—who never let his calm surface show so much as a ripple, for better or worse.

He and Matsuoka were shuttled into a tiny conference room, the shut door muffling the sounds of clanging and metal scraping against metal and the ever-present whine of rotor blades and whirring tools. It was the middle of the night by now, but it seemed there was no rest to be had when the next monster out of the Breach could be banging on their figurative door any moment, and so the Jaeger maintenance crews soldiered on.

The Marshal looked weathered and beaten, a forgivable state given that he’d likely been pulled out of bed for this impromptu briefing, but Haruka supposed that just underscored the urgency of the situation. Would he be relieved of duty altogether at the Shatterdome—or just sent back to the Kwoon room? Was Matsuoka going to be shipped back to Sydney with a “Thanks, but no thanks”? That thought sent a shudder of unease rippling through Haruka; if he couldn’t Drift with Matsuoka, who was supposed to be so amazing he could probably Drift with a _toilet brush_ , then who would they try to shove him into a Conn-Pod with next? He wasn’t fond of Matsuoka—his attitude _or_ his mere presence—but better the devil he knew, he reasoned.

Sasabe slumped into a chair at the head of the table, making vague motions for the others to follow suit, and at an encouraging nod from Makoto, Haruka did so, Matsuoka sliding into the chair just to his left. He’d been unusually quiet since they’d left the pool, as if the easy demeanor he practiced around Haruka began and ended at the threshold to the natatorium. It wasn’t a rapport he much appreciated, but at least it… _fit_ Matsuoka. Out here, in the Jaeger bay where they were faced with the machines that would remind them of their own mortality in living color, the life seemed to drain away from Matsuoka, leaving him colder—a soldier in a war.

Maybe the water did the same things for him as it did for Haruka—relaxed, welcomed, supported.

Sasabe began to drone on about the Sync trial, muttering to himself as he rifled through the fat packet of memos and printouts Makoto had passed him, and Haruka suppressed a twinge of guilt at the knowledge that he alone bore the sole responsibility for the Marshal and Makoto being hauled out of bed in the middle of the night. Then again, if the PPDC had hoped for a successful Drift in their newest toy, perhaps they shouldn’t have shoved an untrained, ill-equipped Fightmaster into a Conn-Pod with a total stranger. Sync ratios be damned, Pilots needed _true_ understanding to be Drift Compatible; how were you supposed to operate as one mind, one body when you could barely remember your partner’s given name?

It was only when the Marshal shifted his glance over to Makoto that Haruka truly began to pay attention to his surroundings, tension spiking at, “So you’ll have the training pods ready by…?”

Makoto straightened up, clearing his throat. “They’re already set up on 2A, sir—though we’ll need to do a bit of recalibrating. Should be ready for interface by 0900.” He cast a wry smile at Haruka and Matsuoka, adding, “Though it might be best to push it back, if we can; I think we can all use a good night’s rest after today.”

Sasabe grunted, the late hour making him more agreeable to suggestions of sleeping in. “All right then; 1300 at the latest, though. The sooner we get them Drifting suitably, the sooner we can start putting the prototype through its paces.” Haruka frowned, not appreciating the way they were speaking about him and Matsuoka as if they weren’t even in the room—but before he could protest, Sasabe continued with a nod to Makoto, “The keys, if you will.”

Makoto scrambled to pull out a pair of card keys, carefully placing one face-up before Haruka before passing the other to Matsuoka. Haruka reached forward to examine it—standard issue RFID, with a fixed label denoting the room number it was keyed to. A glance to the side showed that Matsuoka’s card had the same number, and an uneasy shudder vibrated down his spine.

“Personnel shortages and the general idea of it, well, being pretty fucking stupid to risk paired, viable pilots in a prototype—” Haruka glanced up, brows drawing together in offended confusion; what the hell was he, cannon fodder? “—means you two are pretty much the only pair we can rely on to test that hunk of metal.” He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the Jaeger bay. “These piss-poor sync ratios aren’t going to cut it—and I’m not going to risk Matsuoka having to pilot solo when you pass out in the middle of a run just because you can’t keep it together in a Drift. Now,” He cleared his throat, as if forcing himself to calm down from the rant he’d run off on. “Analyst Tachibana here assures me that with time and careful training, you two might be barely competent, so—” He nodded to the keys. “You’ve got new quarters. Nice swanky officers’ quarters in 3A, even.”

“…New…quarters, sir?”

A nod. “Plenty of Rangers share, especially when space is tight—and this way, you’ll get to kind of…” He made a rolling gesture, “You know, get on the same wavelength. Get a feel for one another. Should help your sync ratios at least a little—right Tachibana?”

Makoto was clearly uncomfortable being put on the spot, and he donned an apologetic grin. “I…I was the one to suggest it, actually. It’s true, though—plenty of teams out there share quarters, meals, training schedules, all for the betterment of their Drift. I know this is all new to you, but you and Matsuoka are the best hope we’ve got right now.” _The only hope_ , Haruka wanted to bite back, but he held his tongue; Makoto probably understood anyway. “It’s not a permanent thing, of course,” he hastened to reassure Haruka and Matsuoka—and it only occurred to him now that Matsuoka hadn’t made any objections as yet to these proposed arrangements. “Just—until your sync ratios settle and we’re sure nothing will…happen.”

Haruka had had enough of the vagueries being bandied about, and with Makoto obviously not up to the task of being his usual translator, he swallowed a wave of bile brought on by the pressure of having to voice his objections himself. Teeth clenched, he ground out, “I’m—sure that there’s no need to go to such lengths, another round or two in the Conn-Pod setup—” _Fuck_ he didn’t want to go back in there, not now that he had some idea of what was waiting; ignorance truly was bliss. “—and I’m sure I’ll be able to get a handle on myself, so—”

A hand slapped the table, and Haruka’s jaw snapped shut, silence filling the room as the echo of the impact died away. Marshal Sasabe wiped a hand over his face, nervous energy setting one leg to bouncing up and down—and then he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a tone that brooked no argument. “These are your orders, Soldier. You and Matsuoka are gonna sleep together, bathe together, _piss_ together until I see sync ratios that don’t make me want to hurl you into the Breach, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” was Haruka’s immediate ingrained response, a soft echo of Matsuoka’s own beside him, but he couldn’t help the note of shock that leaked into his voice at the riot act he’d just been read. Sharing a Conn-Pod with Matsuoka during waking hours and sleeping across the room (if they were forced into bunks, he was going to throttle someone) at night, 24 hours of non-stop exposure, inside his head and out?

Haruka wasn’t entirely sure being ‘hurled into the Breach’ wasn’t the lesser of two evils.

* * *

All things considered, Haruka had definitely scraped out a living in more dismal quarters during his time at the Shatterdome. Jaeger Academy recruits were the lowest of the low on the totem pole, and low-ranking officers didn’t merit much in the way of “frills” either—hell, even most of the Pilots he’d seen wandering the halls didn’t seem to have terribly fine living arrangements, which Haruka had always thought unfair. These men and women were on the front lines, would likely die quite gruesomely if they fell in battle; didn’t they at least deserve a nice hot bath and a comfortable bed to spend their final few moments on earth?

But this place—his (and Matsuoka’s) new quarters—this was…nice. Probably something they kept outfitted for visiting Shatterdome Marshals or government higher-ups the PPDC hoped to impress. He recognized that it wasn’t _for them_ —not in the way one might expect. It was probably just the biggest room they had that could accommodate two people without _also_ accommodating fifty of their closest friends. Granted, Haruka would have rather been back in a bunk in the training barracks than sharing a room with Matsuoka just now.

Still—it was the nicest set of quarters he’d set foot in thus far, so he could perhaps be forgiven for taking a moment to pretend he’d earned them and that they weren’t just a prison cell with fancy trappings.

He was the first to arrive; wherever Matsuoka had been quartered in the barely 24 hours since his arrival, it hadn’t been closer to their new living space than Haruka’s quarters were, so for a few moments at least, he had the room— _rooms_ he silently corrected; a receiving room with a unit kitchen, a bedroom further in, and a separate bath as opposed to communal showers—to himself.

Which left him no distractions from the thoughts inside his mind, and just now…he could really use a distraction. Being ordered to give up the solitary quarters he’d earned to share not only headspace but _real, physical_ space with Matsuoka had been bad enough—worse still had been Makoto’s hushed warnings to him after Sasabe had left, escorting Matsuoka who still wasn’t familiar enough with the Shatterdome layout to find his way to their room easily.

“Haru-chan— _Haru-chan_ , listen to me—” Haruka had only stopped his stalking out the door because Makoto had snapped a hand out to grab him by the upper arm, long fingers pressing tight into the muscle of his bicep. He’d frowned at the gesture—Makoto was a very tactile person, but this was uncalled for. He must have read the offense on Haruka’s features, for he immediately released his grip and rubbed at the back of his head sheepishly, stealing glances after the Marshal and Matsuoka to be sure they were no longer within earshot. “Just…I needed to…tell you something.”

“Going to move us to a penthouse suite, now?” Makoto had flushed, and Haruka bit his tongue, _tsk_ ing to himself, because Makoto had only been doing his job. He’d sighed to himself and settled back against the wall, arms folded over his chest. “…What is it?”

Makoto had flicked his gaze down his clipboard, feigning interest in its contents at first before growing genuinely distracted as he leafed through printouts for whatever he was searching for. “Just—we finally crunched some of the data from yesterday’s Drift attempt—” Haruka had winced; ‘attempt’ hurt more than it ought to. “—and…and I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else and freak out.” Haruka had frowned at the notion that he would ever ‘freak out’, and Makoto smiled, relief obvious. “That is to say, I didn’t want you…getting the wrong idea? It’s really common—well, not _really_ common, and it mostly manifests after 24-plus hours in a Drift, which as you can imagine can take some Drift Partners _years_ , but it definitely does happen, it’s not unusual. Well, not _unheard of_ , I guess I should say, and—”

“Makoto.”

“Yeah, yeah—sorry, just—” He’d whipped his clipboard around, displaying a graph that meant next to nothing to Haruka, and began to trace the squiggly lines on it with his pen. “Okay, this is your neural snapshot—here you can see the timestamp, a few minutes before we started the Drift.” Haruka had stepped closer, following the pen with his finger. “—And here…is where we initiated the Handshake; you can see everything was fine for about thirty seconds.” He’d been honestly shocked he’d lasted that long, but his neural pattern had indeed seemed to hold reasonably steady, albeit with the tell-tale double strand that accompanied a Drift, his own neural patterns overlaid with those of Matsuoka to produce background noise. He’d felt…unexpectedly relieved; somehow, for the tiniest span of time, they _had_ Drifted, even if Haruka didn’t remember it.

But Makoto hadn’t been finished, and he traced along the line to the disturbing series of spikes and dips and swells where everything had gone _wrong_. “I don’t think I need to explain what happened here…” Makoto had intoned wryly. “But if it makes you feel any better—we were prepared for it. Which is to say, we kind of expected it.” It hadn’t made him feel any better, but he appreciated the thought. “So yeah, everything kind of went to shit here for five minutes or so before we were able to disconnect the sync, but…the monitors kept recording until we yanked the sensors off of you.” Here, he’d drawn a circle around the point where the Drift had ended and Haruka had been left alone in his mind once more, albeit unconscious. “There. Do you see it?”

A double signature—without a Drift. “…Ghost Drift?”

Makoto had pursed his lips, dropping his voice even though no one was around to hear them. “You know it’s not real, right? It’s just inside your mind, your own brain still caught up in the neural inertia. It’s—just an echo, he’s not really _there_.” He’d clapped a hand over Haruka’s shoulder, squeezing softly for comfort. “I know you had kind of a crappy Drift, and I’m sure inside one of the training pods is the last place you want to be…but we’ll be monitoring you the whole time, and we know the signs to look for now if you start to crash again. We’ll pull you out before you Drift too deep.”

He’d left Haruka to his own devices then after being paged to LOCCENT, reminding him before leaving that the connection had been severed and that Ghost Drifts were just that—phantom energy firing between neurons that mimicked a Partner’s signature but nothing more. They might even be overly intuitive over the next few days, but it would fade. Haruka hadn’t had the courage to ask if it would come back stronger if they Drifted again.

Their new quarters might have been spacious for a singly occupant, but the two twin beds crammed into the bedroom left little room beyond a strip of floorspace barely wide enough to walk down two-abreast—privacy, it seemed, was no longer a luxury they could either one of them afford. Haruka hoped Matsuoka didn’t snore.

Glancing around the receiving room, most of his belongings seemed to have been packed up (without his permission, he noted) and moved for him, boxed into neat little packages marked PPDC PROPERTY and stacked three-high in a corner. He didn’t have much in the way of worldly possessions—but he was quite protective of what he did own, and the thought of strangers pawing through the few items he liked to think of as _his own_ sent an angry spike through his mind.

“ _Fuck!_ ” came a muffled curse just on the other side of the heavy iron door marking the entrance to the quarters—and a moment later, Matsuoka stepped inside, nearly tripping over the lip of the door jutting up from the floor. He was balancing two airmail boxes in one arm while he massaged his temple with his free hand, his card key clenched between his teeth. “It’l he’ p’se?” When Haruka made no move to respond to the babbled request, Matsuoka grunted and pulled the card key away, licking his lips and repeating, “ _A little help, please?_ ”

Haruka couldn’t feign misunderstanding this time, and with a beleaguered sigh, he stepped forward and relieved Matsuoka of half of his load. It was light—clearly not the books that occupied most of Haruka’s worldly possessions—and rather than stacking it in the corner with his own boxes, he took the liberty of carrying it into the bedroom, Matsuoka on his heels. 

A low whistle announced Matsuoka’s approval of their quarters. “Guess they must really want us to Drift properly, huh…”

He ignored the comment, setting the box on the mattress he’d one-sidedly decided would be Matsuoka’s bed, and when no objection to the placement came, he strode back into the receiving room toward his own stack of boxes, gripping the handles of the middle-most box to try and reduce the number of trips he’d have to take by carrying two at once.

“Easy there—what’s the point of a roommate if not to make them help you out now and then?” Matsuoka grabbed the topmost box without waiting for permission, jerking his head to indicate that Haruka should go first to show him where to place the thing. “Fair’s fair, right? You haul my shit, I’ll haul yours.”

Haruka frowned, raking a gaze over Matsuoka dubiously. He didn’t like flighty people; he wanted everyone to be exactly as they seemed, no personality shifts or secrets or suspicious attempts to cozy up to him for no fathomable reason whatsoever—and Matsuoka was all of these irritations rolled into one. But he was standing here in the far-too plush quarters they’d been shoved into together with a box of Haruka’s possessions in hand, ready to follow wherever he should lead and leaving Haruka with little recourse but to accept the offer.

“Suit yourself,” he muttered, slipping past Matsuoka and dropping his burden on his bed. Without offering any gratitude—it wouldn’t do to encourage Matsuoka like that—he began to rifle through his belongings, cataloging them in his head to be sure nothing had been left behind.

“…Kind of light on the goods there, huh?” Haruka gave a start—Matsuoka’s voice was right by his ear where he had leaned over to peek into Haruka’s box, and with a petulant frown, he flipped up the flap nearest to Matsuoka to try and hide the contents. This only served to amuse his roommate, though, who snorted, “Touchy touchy! It was just a question.”

He huffed his irritation and went back to piecing through the box—the little blue apron Makoto had bought for him had been carefully folded, if not washed, and the grease stains and oil spatters were a reminder of the few luxuries he’d been allowed as Fightmaster. The mess hall fare was middling at best, and the single-burner camp stove he’d had smuggled into the Shatterdome was perfect for grilling up mackerel fillets every Friday evening. He brought the fabric to his nose and inhaled the scent, closing his eyes and calling up memories of three years of Fridays—sometimes with Makoto, sometimes alone; sometimes filled with conversation (mostly from Makoto), sometimes with hardly a word spoken; sometimes overly-salted, sometimes bland, but always _just_ what he’d needed to settle his thoughts. Maybe he’d grill something for breakfast—the unit kitchen was nicer than anything he’d ever had in his old quarters, and even if it wasn’t Friday, there were bound to be some fresh fillets in the coldroom if he could convince the recruits on duty in the mess hall to let him pass.

The creak of bedsprings called him back to the present, and he glanced around to find that Matsuoka had settled onto his bed, testing the give of the mattress with a hint of a smile, like a child. Haruka didn’t doubt that, if he gave Matsuoka some privacy, the man would probably try jumping on the bed as if fulfilling some childhood fantasy. 

Matsuoka’s gaze flicked up from the mattress to meet Haruka’s own, and the tiny smile eased into something more guarded and knowing. He cocked his head to the side, and any hint of childishness was gone, replaced by cool confidence. “So, _Roomie_.” Haruka barely suppressed a wince at the familiar address. “Wanna get to know one another better?”

“Not particularly.”

“C’mon~” Matsuoka wheedled, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “We’re supposed to be using these new quarters to learn more about each other, right? Or do you seriously think a 30-second drift is gonna be remotely useful in the field?”

Haruka wasn’t sure if he ought to express concerned shock that Matsuoka knew how long they’d Drifted or scoffing disbelief at the notion they’d ever be placed “in the field”. Instead, he opted for detached aloofness, opening up the box of his that Matsuoka had carried in and pulling out a bath towel—he stank of sweat and adrenaline and longed to wash the day’s events from his skin. “Do whatever you want.” If Matsuoka wanted to pepper him with questions, he was welcome to—so long as he didn’t expect more than monosyllabic answers nor any questions of Haruka’s own in return.

Matsuoka offered a soft _hmph_ in response that sounded far more victorious than Haruka thought it should, but he still allowed a beat of respectful silence before starting, “…So are you close with Tachibana?”

Haruka immediately paused in his search for his scrub pad, even going so far as to glance over his shoulder; Matsuoka’s expression was unreadable—but at least it wasn’t one of knowing superiority. “… _That’s_ your first question?”

Matsuoka shrugged. “Only the most immediately pressing one.”

Haruka bit back the urge to ask why it was _immediately pressing_ , instead allowing a memory to bubble up and brush at the surface of his mind—a long procession of figures in white, plodding slowly and inexorably toward the sea, a harbor more smoking wreckage and splintered debris than anything remotely resembling _civilization_ , Haruka on a hill, much younger than now, with Makoto at his side, fingers clenched in the fabric of Haruka’s shirt and breath coming in soft, panicked gasps— 

“…You’re protective of him.”

It wasn’t spoken as a question, more of an acknowledgment, and Haruka’s brows drew together in uncomfortable confusion, as he’d given no such indication—he’d thought there wasn’t a tone Matsuoka could take that would unsettle him more than that cocky, knowing lilt, but he’d obviously been mistaken. “We’ve been friends for as long as I remember,” he allowed.

“And yet you didn’t say ‘yes’ when I asked.” Matsuoka shifted on the bed, drawing up tall and straight into a stance, and he quickly covered the distance between them, lifting a brow in question. “Aren’t you close?” 

Haruka resisted taking a step back to place more space between them—if only because this was _his area_ , and Matsuoka was the one rudely intruding. Locking eyes with Matsuoka to get his intention across, he spoke calmly and clearly, “That’s generally a given with friends.”

“Generally,” Matsuoka returned, but with a step back in seeming accession until his knees bumped against the mattress and he flopped back down onto his own bed. “Your turn, now.”

Haruka narrowed his gaze for a moment, not grasping the flow of conversation, before realizing he was now being pressed to continue their ‘discussion’ as it were. He glanced down at the towel and scrub pad in his hand, clenched tight with white knuckles, but before his legs could carry him into the bathroom, away from the pressure, his tongue was already pushing out over his lips, “Where did you learn to swim?”

The silence that followed only seemed loud because of the subsequent bark of laughter that rent it, Matsuoka’s shoulders heaving with the effort to keep his breathing steady. “ _Shit_ Nanase—just when I think I’ve got you figured out…” He shook his head and wiped at his eyes, sniffling around drunken giggles. “I guess you _can_ fly outside of expectations from time to time.” This last comment was delivered with his cocky, knowing grin, which only served to set Haruka’s irritation to flaring.

“You wanted conversation—I’m hardly all that deep, so I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from patronizing me—”

“Fuck, c’mon Nanase, calm down,” Matsuoka grinned, leaning forward onto his knees again and lifting his brows suggestively. “Is that seriously all you want to know about me?” Haruka huffed to himself and snatched up a face towel. “Or is there just _so_ much you want to know about me, you can’t decide where to start?” He stood now in an attempt to block Haruka’s dramatic exit, ducking down to try and draw his gaze with a leer. “Wanna know my birthdate? My sign? My bloodtype?”

This had been a ridiculous distraction—while he might grant that Makoto and the Marshal had a point, that they _did_ need to understand one another better as individuals in order to improve their Drift, that could just as easily be accomplished through sessions with a Psych Analyst as through ridiculous conversations such as _this_. Matsuoka evidently had no desire to be mature about the whole endeavor, and Haruka was in no mood to babysit the prodigy Pilot the PPDC hoped to pawn off on Tokyo for some frivolous research project.

It was just as he stepped over the threshold into the showers, though, that he realized Matsuoka’s inane cackling had died away, leaving his final suggestion of, “…Want to know why all my previous Drift partners got the Bends?” echoing loudly off the cold stone walls just as Haruka slid the door shut behind himself.

* * *

When he stepped back into the bedroom following a quick shower and a much longer, more relaxing soak in a cool bath, he noticed the tablet on his bed flashing to report an unread notification. He brushed a finger over the home button, calling up the notification center—and frowned at what he’d expected to find but most definitely was not looking forward to: a schedule detailing two weeks of special efforts intended to help him and Matsuoka improve their Sync Ratios—starting with Pons pod sessions just after lunch.

He cast a furtive glance over at Matsuoka’s bed and found his tablet charging, flashing with the same unread notification. With a distracted sigh, he raked his fingers through his hair, nearly dry now, to shake it into place, then toed on a pair of sneakers and snatched up his keycard by the door.

Matsuoka was exactly where Haruka had expected to find him, back facing the door as his toes dangled in the pool water—he wondered distantly why he never found Matsuoka _in_ the water, as that always helped Haruka to settle whatever feelings were plaguing him when he needed to just _get away_ from everything. Perhaps they weren’t as similarly affected by a soothing dip as he’d initially thought.

“If we keep meeting like this, people are gonna start talking,” Matsuoka teased, but without much bite, and Haruka refused to rise to the bait this time, instead padding barefoot over the concrete to settle down beside him. 

The pool was brightly lit between the long lamps hanging from the ceiling above and the underwater lights just below the surface, and Haruka wondered if he could jimmy the breaker box to at least douse the overhead ones; the embrace of the water in the day—even an artificial one—couldn’t compare to the comfort of floating just beneath the surface as the evening stretched into night, staring up from beneath into blackness just above. 

“…So why did your previous partners get Drifter Bends?” He’d come all the way down here for something, and while he couldn’t quite remember what that was, he could stand humoring Matsuoka for a bit, if only to convince him to come back up to the room so they could turn in. He didn’t want to be woken in the middle of a REM cycle by Matsuoka flailing about in the darkness and breaking something.

Matsuoka snorted softly next to him before cocking his head to the side, a wry smile playing at his lips. “…Because I’m cursed.” Haruka frowned; he didn’t believe in superstitious nonsense, and it was hard to be frightened by fairy tales and legend when there were real monsters to contend with. Matsuoka shrugged, obviously reading his incredulity on his face. “…Drifts are…funny things. Delicate balances.” He held a hand out and mimed gently pressing something away. “You push too hard—say, like something an empath might unconsciously do—and you’re going to throw your partner off. Overwhelm them.”

Haruka licked his lips, intrigued in spite of himself. “…And if you pull too hard?”

The smile Matsuoka wore was no longer wry but that discomfiting _knowing_ grin again, and Haruka instinctively pulled away as Matsuoka reached for him. “Well then that’s not Drifting; that’s getting caught in the undertow.” He punctuated this by looping his arm around Haruka’s neck, too quickly for him to duck out of—24 hours outside of the Kwoon Combat Room and already his instincts were dulling? Disgraceful—and slid forward off the edge of the pool, dragging Haruka in after him as they crashed through the surface in a wash of bubbles.

Thrashing and clawing at the arm around his neck which kept Haruka too close to lash out with his feet, he scrambled back to the surface and broke through with a gasping inhalation, a litany of curses lighting up his mind and sure to be flowing from his lips as soon as he filled his lungs with air again.

But still Matsuoka kept his hold, drawing in close and ducking down to demand Haruka look him in the eye. “ _Don’t_ follow me,” he warned, and before Haruka’s confused, oxygen-deprived mind could even begin to wonder _where?_ , he added, “In my head, don’t follow me in there.” Haruka swiped at him feebly, and Matsuoka finally released him, treading back a few paces in the water. “If you stay where you’re supposed to…you’ll be fine.”

Haruka wiped fiercely at his face— _dammit_ , now he was going to have to take another shower, and this time without the luxury of a cool soak afterward. Matsuoka was talking nonsense again, but somehow Haruka was able to scramble to keep up. “...I told you before,” he muttered, lips wet and thick with chlorinated water. “I didn’t follow you. _You_ pulled _me_ out of sync—”

“Because _you followed me_ ,” was the sharp reminder, and Haruka could almost feel Matsuoka’s patience wearing thin, stretched taut and tight between them as he vacillated between amusement and wonder and frustration and—was that panic? Haruka frowned at the unexpected emotion radiating off of Matsuoka, masked by the other more prominent feelings but still there, nonetheless, impossible to miss. “We’re not joined at the hip—you have to make a conscious choice to go after me. So just _don’t_.” Haruka groped for the thread of panic again, curious to see where it might lead—when it was abruptly cut, a wall going up, and replaced by that irritating cockiness, made manifest by the flirtatious tone Matsuoka subsequently adopted. “I know I’m irresistible, but do try to control yourself.” Haruka flushed in irritation, opening his mouth to object at the ridiculous suggestion, but Matsuoka rolled onto his back and began lazily floating out into the middle of the pool, eyes closed. “There’s only so far you can fall before I can’t pull you out anymore.”

Haruka couldn’t help the soft gasp, memories he’d repressed—unconsciously or otherwise—rising again to the forefront of his mind. Dark, inky tendrils reaching for him, grasping and craving and demanding, hungry like a predator—and the sharp, piercing _NANASE!_ slicing through it all. He’d thought he’d imagined it, just a product of a Drift gone wrong. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved to know that his rescue, as it were, hadn’t been imagined…or unsettled at the knowledge that he’d needed to be ‘rescued’ from something at all.

Matsuoka’s voice was farther away now, and Haruka began a slow stroke to catch up to him again, ignoring the warnings he continued to dole out: “We’re Drift partners—not married. You don’t have to know everything about me.” And Haruka wanted to _laugh_ , because how hypocritical could one truly be? “Just…stick to your side of your mind, and I’ll stay on mine, and things’ll go swimmingly.”

Haruka frowned at the pun, flicking water onto Matsuoka and reminding dryly, “That’s hardly conducive to a working Drift.”

Matsuoka grunted, wiping his face where a few stray droplets had landed. “What do you know? You’ve never Drifted properly with anyone. And _I’ve_ never had a drift go sour, so—”

“Until me.” He cupped water in his hands and used it to smooth the hair back from his face.

The frown in Matsuoka’s voice was almost tangible. “…Hey, that didn’t count—”

“Performance anxiety?”

Another bark of laughter, just as loud and genuine as the first—it both grated with its sharpness and soothed with its familiarity. He found he quite preferred this Matsuoka to the cocky, flirtatious one or the disturbingly knowing one, if he had to choose one at all. “Did you just make a joke, Nanase Haruka?”

Haruka’s only response was a soft, “Maybe,” before he sidled just close enough to the unsuspecting Matsuoka, still suspended on his back and floating comfortably, to quietly loop an arm around his neck and yank him under. Fair was indeed fair, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Standing before the two long, ovoid pods and tracing his gaze along the bundles of wires grounding them to the LOCCENT mockup that would serve as mission control, for all intents and purposes, Haruka couldn’t help the uneasy sensation that washed over him, like he was a recruit once more being shuttled around the Shatterdome and listening to their tour guide regale them with tales of how one day he too might be learning to handle a Drift in one of these training pods. He’d been here once before—he wasn’t thrilled about being here again.

“Just—try not to think so much about it, okay?” Makoto’s voice was soft and even, as if he worried that any show of emotion would tip Haruka off balance and send him bolting like some frightened prey animal (he wasn’t incorrect). He busied himself checking connections and setting values on the training pod keypad, likely in large part for Haruka’s benefit, and continued to prattle on about how very necessary (but of course very, very safe) these training sessions were. “It’s not a test, remember—the Conn Pod session yesterday, sure, maybe, but today is just…” He made an ambiguous gesture with his hand, “...getting to know your partner.” Haruka hoped his frown related how little good Makoto’s attempts at reassurance were doing. Makoto didn’t meet his gaze, though, instead running a hand along the smooth, aerodynamic curve of the training pod.

Supposedly the idea of the pods was to function as something akin to a sensory deprivation chamber, placing whoever was unlucky enough to be stuck in one in a secure, comfortable environment where all they had to do was focus on that mind on the other side of the Drift mirroring their own, to strike a balance of push and pull, give and take. It sounded easy enough in theory—and probably _was_ easy, for people who weren’t overwhelmed trying to sift through the wash of emotion from everyone around them to pinpoint the one mind they were _supposed_ to be linking with—but the fact that Haruka’s rank was that of Fightmaster and not Ranger was testament to that very much not being the case with him.

He flicked his gaze over to the other pod where Matsuoka stood, arms out from his sides and eyes focused firmly ahead while technicians outfitted him with all manner of wires and sensors. He seemed calm—almost detached, even, as if his mind was worlds away, and Haruka silently envied him for this ability. He was a poor mirror, wincing and flinching as pons techs sharply slapped electrodes on his chest and temples, and while standing around in little more than what amounted to a bathing suit was all well and good in the natatorium, here in the training module, it was a bit embarrassing. This whole song and dance was—there was no beating around the bush about it— _annoying_ , but he might have derived some enjoyment from it to see Matsuoka’s cool exterior a bit ruffled from the experience. As it was, he wouldn’t even get _that_.

“Haru?” Makoto’s voice called with a questioning lilt, and Haruka drew his attention back to the task at hand, following Makoto’s extended arm to the open pod; it was, it seemed, time to start. The concrete floor was cool beneath his bare feet, and he might have been able to fool himself into thinking he was about to mount a starting block in preparation for one of the races Matsuoka seemed so intent on goading him into, but the distinct acrid smell of the relay gel being pumped into the pons unit was a far cry from chlorine, so the illusion stopped there.

He settled gingerly into the padded chair—this really _was_ just a testing unit, then—and tried to relax, eying the relay gel with some suspicion and trying not to jump out of his skin when the chair began to stretch him out supine with a mechanical whir until the gel reached up to his temples, submerging the electrodes taped there.

“Sorry about the gel; you’ll need a stronger connection without the helmet, so it’s either this or a neural spike straight into the skull.” Makoto’s voice was muffled now, as if speaking to Haruka from beneath the water—or rather, the other way around—and Haruka felt himself relax a hair as the sensation of sinking beneath the waves washed over him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block out the scent of the gel and focus on his other senses—darkness behind his lids, hearing muffled where sound fought to reach through liquid more viscous than air, fingers floating not in water but at least _floating_. A deep breath in, another out—he could do this, it was just like learning to swim. Ease into the water, don’t fight it. Splashing and thrashing only made you sink—you had to work with the water, balance your strokes.

Slowly the darkness behind his eyes deepened as the pod lid closed with a soft hiss, and when he opened his eyes again, he fought a moment of panic as he was met with _nothing_ —but this was how it was supposed to be, everything blocked off so that his mind had nowhere to focus but exactly where it was supposed to be. Of course the darkness didn't stop the wash of emotions buffeting against him, but it felt...like distant voices now, from far away, and muffled as if through thick water. He could tune them out better--and maybe, he allowed, in the years since he'd last been in one of these things, he'd started to learn some finer control over himself.

More deep breaths in, and out—and soon he couldn't even make out the emotions all that clearly anymore. Makoto was usually a bright, blaring wave that slammed into Haruka and enveloped him, nearly drowning him with the desperation Makoto perpetually held in check. Makoto was strong of heart, but weak without an anchor, so Haruka always had to ground himself particularly fiercely—but now, he actually had to _reach out_ , to try and grasp for anything familiar, because everything was fading, even Makoto, and the darkness was somehow getting deeper and deeper, folding in around and beckoning him to fall in.

Everything was too much trouble, too annoying, and while he had the vague recollection that he didn't like this darkness, that it wasn't what it seemed, he was tired of fighting—and from far away, a computerized female voice said something that sounded like _neural handshake initiated_.

* * *

It was the same as before...except not. There was the darkness, and the ominous sense of _something_ out there, and the cold of course—always the cold—but this time he had more...of a sense of _awareness_. He knew he wasn't really _here_ , that his body was tucked inside a pons unit with dozens of techs running support and Makoto himself likely poring over his neural readouts, scribbling away notes into his clipboard that he'd want to explain to Haruka later with almost manic glee that Haruka wouldn't have to feign interest in because it was _Makoto_. He knew that Matsuoka was only a few meters away in a pons unit much like Haruka's own, spitting out similar readings, and even though Haruka couldn't quite feel him, even though he knew somehow that this wasn't _right_ _(I felt him in the pool, felt that nervous energy and excitement and challenge and shouldn't it be here...?)_, he felt...capable. Like he could handle this. He wasn't scared—or rather, wasn't scared of the _Drift_. He was scared, deep in his bones—he knew that something still lurked out there, but before the panic could raise icy fingers and clutch at his throat, a memory bubbled up.

An arm around his neck, air heavy and close and humid, Matsuoka's voice soft with warning _Don't follow me_. _That's not a place for you. You don't belong there_. Barriers of words and intent and emotion, meant to keep Haruka at arm's length, and he understood that the Drift only worked— _really_ worked—when you just flowed into one another, didn't stop to dig around in each other's minds. Still, though...it felt like more, with Matsuoka. Not like advice from a veteran Ranger to someone only _playing_ at being a Jaeger pilot, more like...

_There's only so far you can fall before I can't pull you out anymore_

__...a warning.

A flash pierced the darkness of...wherever he was, and he twisted about, in on himself and in a dozen impossible orientations that were only possible inside one's mind—until he pulled the flicker out of his peripheral vision and into focus. A light—kind of. Dim and hazy and maybe not even really there, maybe a figment of his imagination, but it felt familiar, like the real Matsuoka he'd sensed before and not the strange facade of countless memories culled from the people Matsuoka had interacted with over the years (really, _who_ was he kidding?). There was a foreign tang to it, an emotional flavor that was hard to describe but all the more memorable for its strangeness, and it reminded Haruka of how Matsuoka made him feel—like he'd do anything to get away from it, into calmer, more familiar emotional waters, but at the same time felt drawn by some childlike curiosity. Matsuoka was _new_ and weird and fucked everything up. And this somehow made Haruka want _more_. It was hardly fair for one person to be able to inspire such emotional whiplash, and not for the first time, Haruka wished he were _normal_.

The light flickered again, flaring briefly before shrinking down again—a tentative beacon that Haruka felt drawn to, moth to a flame and all that. But the heavy, ominous _foreboding_ that hung in the air (or whatever he was breathing) steeled him in place, and he imagined Matsuoka's warning again, sharper and more desperate. _Don't follow me_.

The light wasn't a place for him to be; he didn't belong _with it_. Which struck him as odd—because if he didn't belong there, with his partner in the Drift (was this a Drift? Did it even count?), then where _did_ he belong? He supposed, then, that if he couldn't go to the light, if he couldn't wander into the darkness, then perhaps he ought to just stay right here—and he curled in on himself again, coiling and bunching until he'd built a core around himself, and it was once again dark and quiet. He wondered distantly if anyone would try to find him; was Matsuoka out there looking for him? Was Makoto reviewing his neural readouts and frowning in concern, wishing he'd put his foot down and refused to put Haruka back into a Drift when he'd reacted so poorly the first time? If he stayed here in this little bubble, would the inky black tendrils of _wrong_ eventually track him down, following the pulsing beat of his _self_ ness like a homing beacon? Would Matsuoka still pull him out again if that happened? _Could_ he?

Suddenly desperate to know he wasn't here, facing the darkness alone, he sent out mental feelers—not searching, because he wasn't supposed to do that, but attentive and listening, straining for a whiff of familiar desperation and worry from Makoto, for the cocky tang of superiority from Matsuoka, and through the oppressive silence, he could hear...someone—something, calling for him distantly. At times he thought he heard _Haru_ , and others a frantic _Nanase_ , but maybe that was just his mind reflecting back what he wanted to hear: someone missing him, worried for him, _terrified_ of losing him, even if it was for all the wrong reasons—mostly because he couldn't fathom what the _right_ reason was supposed to be. He hated the responsibilities that came with being important to someone, and yet...it still taunted, teased, tantalized. If he stayed here, ignoring everything like he was supposed to— _Don't follow me; you don't belong there_ —would he be missed? Would Sasabe strap someone else in next to Matsuoka tomorrow? Would they be an amazing team together? Would they take Omega Free out to face a kaiju and show the PPDC that their research funds had been well spent?

The calls were still coming, fading but desperate, and Haruka coiled in further on himself; he knew how to resist this siren call now, he just needed to focus on blocking them out, just needed to—

* * *

Haruka woke to a ceiling he was starting to recognize. The medical bay, again. 

A soft _tic tic tic_ from beside the cot he'd been stretched out on called his attention to a clock on the bedside table—6-something, but this deep underground, it was impossible to tell if it was AM or PM. He lost himself watching the little second hand shudder around the dial for a few moments, before he was distracted by the sound of gentle, even snoring. Blinking blearily to adjust his focus, the blur just beyond the bedside table slowly coalesced into Makoto, settled back in a chair with a clipboard in one hand that seemed very nearly about to clatter to the floor. He squinted—but couldn't make out what was written.

He inhaled sharply and jolted with shock at a hand shaking him lightly on the shoulder, shifting around abruptly to see Matsuoka standing two paces back from the bed, hands raised in the air in a sign of surrender. "...Calm down, it's just me." Haruka blinked again and realized Matsuoka was holding a bottle of water in each hand, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, only realizing now how very thirsty he was. Matsuoka cocked a soft little smile and extended one hand to pass over one of the bottles. "Figured you might need some fluids when you finally woke up, since they didn't hook you up to a drip this time."

Haruka grimaced as he took a swig, the water lukewarm but still a balm to his scratchy throat. He gargled before swallowing, making his first question once again, "How long was I out?"

Matsuoka shrugged, dragging up a chair beside the bed and twisting the cap off his own bottle. "Only a few hours this time; just in time for dinner rush." He took a long draw, then nodded over at Makoto. "You nearly gave your psych analyst there a fit, you know; do you _always_ head straight for the deep end?" Matsuoka was making absolutely no sense, and Haruka wondered (with no small amount of trepidation) if he wasn't still in the Drift, if this was some kind of waking dream that he couldn't tell wasn't real but still felt _wrong_.

He ignored Matsuoka's question with one of his own. "...How did I get here?"

Matsuoka swirled some water around in his mouth before swallowing thickly. "Me and two huge orderlies had to drag your ass out of the training pod, that's how. You _really_ didn't want to come." He snorted softly—then raked Haruka with a questioning gaze, the leer fading from his lips. "...You don't remember, then?"

Haruka crinkled his brow, straining to recall his last memory—everything from the moment the training pod hatch closed was a blur, but he could pick out patches of emotion—and they were not _happy_ emotions.

Matsuoka licked his lips, rolling the bottle between his palms in a nervous gesture. "I only really know what they told me—well, what _he_ told me—" He nodded to Makoto, expression a bit abashed, as if he felt ashamed that he'd somehow indebted himself to the man. "—but...after the handshake, after the sync started up, you kind of..." He cocked his head, seeming to search for the right words. "The neural bridge. You rejected it."

"...Rejected," he repeated robotically, and Matsuoka nodded.

"He said—Tachibana said it was like...your body treated the bridge like a foreign body to be dispelled." He made a face. "Which makes fuck-all sense to me; I thought these pods were supposed to be _easier_ to Drift in..." He had a point; they'd managed a Drift the previous day, albeit a brief one, so why were the training pods any different?

Haruka worried at the lip of his water bottle, frowning as he tried to recall more than just the blurred scraps of emotion left behind by his forced ejection from the training pod. "I...don't understand. I did what you told me to; I didn't follow you, I stayed put, I tried to ignore all the _wrong_..." And it had worked, he'd blocked everything off—and maybe that had been the problem.

Matsuoka snorting softly called him back to the present. He huffed his irritation at the reaction, quite sure he hadn't said anything that merited _laughter_ , but Matsuoka just cocked his head and narrowed his gaze in amused calculation. "You never do anything by halves, do you, Nanase?" Haru's confused frown only provoked another snort. "Yeah, yeah I know. I told you not to follow me, but..." He shrugged. "Well, it's their fault as much as mine—maybe more, even." And Matsuoka was once again making absolutely no sense. He spoke in riddles—or maybe he just thought empathy meant Haruka could read his mind. Matsuoka leaned forward, settling his elbows on the mattress, and huffed in disbelief, shaking his head. "They don't know what to do with you, do they? They think you're supposed to be tolerated or worked around...rather than _utilized_." Haruka got the distinct feeling Matsuoka was simply talking to himself here, so he kept quiet, studying Matsuoka's face instead. There were soft lines and creases where there shouldn't be—not for another 10, 20 years—and his eyes were constantly in motion, flicking over Haruka's face, neck, chest, any bit of skin he could catch—leaving Haruka feeling like a bug under glass, being studied, researched. He wanted to ask something like _why do you look at me like that_ , but Matsuoka held his hand out before he could voice his questions, and suddenly there were entirely _new_ questions on his mind. "Let's try this again."

"...What?"

He shook his hand a bit insistently, palm open and waiting. "Let's try again," he repeated more slowly this time. "I leave you to your own devices, and you try and follow me where you shouldn't trespass; I tell you _not_ to follow me, and you fuck up the handshake." He snapped his hand forward to grip Haruka's wrist, tugging sharply and then releasing slowly until their palms were flush and fingers twined. "Clearly I'm going to have to hold your hand through this."

A soft clearing of the throat set Haruka to jumping in his skin, and he quickly snatched his hand from Matsuoka's grasp, holding it close to his chest and mouth opening and closing as he groped for words. Makoto saved him the trouble with a relieved, "You're up, Haru-chan."

"Don't call me 'Haru-chan'," he groused reflexively, relieved to feel his heart rate steadying once more. Matsuoka had retreated to a respectable distance and had his tablet out on his lap, busying himself with some readout or another; Haruka wished he would leave altogether—the atmosphere was strangely tense with the three of them together in such an enclosed space.

Makoto amicably ignored his request, continuing as if Haruka hadn't said a word. "So Matsuoka explained what happened?" Haruka simply shrugged; he doubted Matsuoka had sugar-coated anything, and if Makoto was worried he hadn't been thoroughly briefed, he'd review the incident himself. As it was, though, he simply launched into a run-down of steps being taken to ensure the rejection didn't happen again. "We're doing some calibrating of the pods—going to try and keep the Drift as shallow as possible in future tests to kind of ease you into it. It won't be a strong Drift, initially—certainly not strong enough to pilot a toaster oven let alone a Jaeger—but...hopefully as you grow accustomed, we'll be able to send you deeper." He pursed his lips and gave a nod, as if trying to convince himself, then cleared his throat and stood, buttoning his labcoat before him. "You'll help him to his room, Matsuoka?" Matsuoka flicked his gaze up from the tablet, face bathed in a soft, electric blue glow, then gave a curt nod but nothing more. "...Right, we'll try again tomorrow. Report to the training pods at 0900." And with a last comforting nod in Haruka's direction, he strode out of the medical bay. Haruka watched him leave for a long moment before Matsuoka broke the silence with, "You hungry?"

* * *

In the mess hall, Matsuoka inhaled his dinner—a disappointingly bland attempt at a clam chowder with no respite in the form of a _washoku_ alternative that might better suit Japanese palates—with one hand, while he scrolled through reports and readouts with the other on his tablet, pointing out interesting details from their earlier pons pod session. "Look, you can see our neural sync ratios were improved by 11%; we might just be able to pull this off after a few more sessions." A few more sessions, each ending with Haruka in the medical bay, he likely meant. At least he was well-rested in compensation. Matsuoka must have caught his expression, for he added, "C'mon, at least you haven't gotten the Bends, yet?" Small miracles, indeed.

One thing he did appreciate, though, was the fact that Matsuoka didn't treat him like some breakable object just because he'd spent a good portion of the last two days unconscious in the medical bay. He walked a bit slower to keep his pace even with Haruka's, but he never offered his arm or asked _You feeling okay?_ , simply filling the silence between them with idle chatter with Haruka offering the occasional monosyllabic grunt of comprehension. Maybe Matsuoka just liked the sound of his voice, or maybe he hated the silence; regardless, it was another one of those irritating _things_ about the man that Haruka was still struggling to deal with. 

"And _shit_ I need a shower now—this relay gel reeks. I call dibs on first shower, just so you know, and—Nanase?"

Haruka had stopped a few paces back, pausing just at the stairwell that led down to the natatorium; he didn't know why he'd stopped—he'd only just woken up a couple of hours ago, and they had another long day ahead of them in the morning. If Makoto were here, he likely would have chuckled softly and talked Haruka into settling for a long soak in the tub instead, but it wasn't so much the _water_ he wanted right now as the vast, empty space of the after-hours pool.

A strained sigh just beside him startled him, and he glanced over at Matsuoka, who was massaging his temples. "...All right, but I'm not letting you get in the water, got it? Not after you passed out in the pod; Tachibana would probably skin me alive and feed me to the next kaiju out of the Breach." He snorted at his own joke, shrugging. "Or maybe not; he seems like kind of a pushover."

Haruka reached forward with an irritated frown and gripped the handle to the stairwell door, giving it a hard yank. "Don't bite the hand that could just as easily fill your helmet with kaiju excrement as relay gel." He stepped through and began to descend. "And I don't need your permission."

"Yeah yeah," Matsuoka allowed, but wisely made no more remarks about Makoto.

Rather than heading for the lockers to change into his suit, in compliance with Matsuoka's orders not to swim so soon out of the medical bay, Haruka settled at the pool's edge and rolled the legs of his pants up to dangle his feet in the water, shifting to the side to make room when Matsuoka crouched beside him to do the same. Matsuoka's chattiness seemed to have died a swift death as they descended the stairs, until now, sitting here by the pool together, there was nothing but silence and the distant clanging and whirring of activity in the Jaeger bay, where crews were always on duty.

It didn't last long, though, and Matsuoka eventually cracked with, "...You up for another round in the pods in the morning?" As if Haruka had any choice; he'd given up any hope of getting back to his Kwoon Room sessions for the rest of the semester. Matsuoka chuckled at the sour expression that flickered across Haruka's face, listing to the side to bump shoulders. "C'mon, I promise to make it worth your while this time." And that was...new.

"...Worth my while?" The question brought about a knowing smile, grating in its superiority, but at least he was spared the waves of cockiness and _challenge_ that usually accompanied the expression. This time, all he felt...was excitement, just barely tempered with hope.

Matsuoka shrugged. "It's because I don't really know how to deal with you." And Haruka's disgust at having to be 'dealt with' must have shown on his face, for Matsuoka grinned and waved him off. "No, I mean—I've never had issues Drifting with anyone before; they all just...accept me, it's never been a _chore_. With you, though..." He cocked his head. "You, Nanase Haruka, require a bit more _finesse_." Haruka wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that Matsuoka clearly _liked_ the challenge of Drifting with Haruka, but he supposed it was better than beign stuck with someone who found him intolerable. "I figure if you're an empath—we may as well _use it_ rather than trying to work around it. It's clearly not getting us anywhere." He nodded over Haruka's shoulder to one of the concrete starting blocks just beyond where they were sitting. "You ever been in a relay before?"

He hadn't really—competitions weren't his thing—but he understood the basic concept. "...What does a relay have to do with anything?"

Matsuoka gestured to the lane they were in. "Relays rely on a _connection_ , that moment of transfer from one team member to another—an exchange of energy, kind of like a Drift."

"...I think that's reaching."

"Dammit, _work with me_ here, Nanase." Haruka buttoned up. "C'mere." He took Haruka by the elbow and tugged him up as he stood, then walked him carefully over to the block and faced him forward out across the pool. "False starts will get your team disqualified, you know?" His voice was hypnotic, breath soft over Haruka's ear. "So if you don't get the timing _just right_ , you're fucked. Gotta walk a fine line..." Matsuoka's chest was pressed just up against his back, and with each inhalation, they brushed through layers of clothes before exhalation brought disconnect. "You'll stand here, on this block—and wait for me. You won't watch me, won't listen, not with your ears at least—just close your eyes and _feel_ when I've arrived, reach out...and wait for me to connect to you."

A finger brushed over his bare shoulder, and Haruka gave a sharp inhalation, stepping away at a quick pace, around the starting block. "That's—" He shook his head; this wasn't empathy Matsuoka wanted him to use, this was _beyond_ , this was _both ways_ , and they weren't _like that_. "Ghost Drifting, that's not—Makoto said it was just an echo, a phantom. It's just in our minds." He pursed his lips. "It's not _real_ , my—I don't _work_ like that."

And Matsuoka's hand darted forward, faster than Haruka could follow with his eye—but his own hand had already snapped around to catch Matsuoka's wrist before he could grab Haruka's, twisting until Matsuoka hissed through a painful chuckle, "Then how'd I do that?"

Haruka frowned, reminding, "Because I'm a Fightmaster and you evidently pissed away everything you ever learned of Jaeger bushido." He tightened his grip on Matsuoka's wrist, taking silent pride in the wince that fractured Matsuoka's knowing smile. "Of course I have decent reflexes."

But Matsuoka just flexed his muscles with a fist, pulling his arm—and Haruka with it—to his chest. Haruka relaxed his grip to pull away—but too late, a wave of thoughts washed over him—

_Matsuoka slipping an arm around his neck, tugging him down into the water, a flash of flirtation and excitement building up, and this wasn't part of the mission, this was just enjoying a moment for its own sake, emotions too simple and uncomplicated for Matsuoka to resist. This was_ fun _, Nanase was new and different and still human but so much_ more _, almost like_ —

Matsuoka shoved him away bodily, and just like that the connection went dead, no longer the clear, sharp images and thoughts and emotions as clear in Haruka's mind as if they'd been his own, just the blurred, buzzing _feelings_ others gave off. It had been a _rush_ , like an adrenaline shot straight to the heart, living in someone else's skin, and Haruka had never wanted that, _hated_ understanding what others were feeling in a nonstop onslaught, but this...this was—"Ghost Drifting?"

Matsuoka's brows quirked up, and Haruka didn't need empathy to know he was feeling very proud of himself—but because he did have it, he also detected the faint, lingering traces of panic, and his chest hurt where Matsuoka had violently shoved him away, severing their connection. "Tachibana doesn't know the first thing about Drifting," he drawled, taking a few measured steps back—then shrugged. "Who're you gonna listen to when you're suiting up for a dip in shark-infested waters? A goldfish who's never been outside of his little bowl?" He turned on his heel and marched for the door, adding, "...Or one of the sharks?"


	5. Chapter 5

Underground, it was easy to lose track of when day waxed into night and vice versa, until you couldn't tell if it was 4 in the morning or afternoon—but the weariness that beckoned him back to bed and the sensation of having overslept when he was roused by a _clang_ and hissed curse told Haruka it was morning, a fact confirmed when he groped at the cotside table for his tablet and realized his alarm hadn't gone off yet. He flicked a wary gaze to the other side of the room and lurched at the brief rush of panic when he found Matsuoka's side of the room empty, the bed neatly made and pillow fluffed as if he hadn't slept in it at all.

Another clang—and he was upright, rubbing at his eyes blearily as he tried to organize his thoughts. Matsuoka had lingered at the pool after Haruka had headed back to their room, muttering something about wanting to get a few laps in—which, Haruka couldn't blame him. The quiet of the empty natatorium was worlds away from the almost artificial silence he'd endured in the training pod, and had he not been only a half hour out of the medical bay, he might have joined Matsuoka for a dip, with or without his 'permission'. But he could only too easily imagine Makoto's frowned concern, so he'd instead forced himself to head for the stairwell, hanging back only a moment to dare a glance over his shoulder at the wash of foam left behind when Matsuoka dove in.

The moment turned into two, then several, until only the panic of knowing that he'd be caught staring if he didn't leave before Matsuoka made the turn forced him from the room. If Matsuoka had felt Haruka's heavy, wary gaze on him, unsure of what to make of his sleek form rising from the water only to cut the surface in twain as he slipped back in, he gave no indication. Which in itself was strange; Matsuoka seemed the type to crave attention, to somehow instinctively _know_ that Haruka had been watching him and to take advantage of it by trying to splash him or crow cockily about how great the water felt and Haruka was _really_ missing out. This was the side to himself that Matsuoka presented, claimed was his own, his true self; but it was next to impossible to lie to a Drift partner, and Haruka didn't need empathy to know that Matsuoka was more honest in a pair of legskins and goggles than he'd ever been facing down the Marshal or tugging on a Drivesuit.

Another soft curse, this time in English, pulled Haruka back to the present, and he reached for the thin robe hanging on a hook at the foot of his bed before stepping into the kitchenette area, blinking away the blurriness everything took on when bathed in fluorescent light. "...Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"'Course I do. There's a clock on the Mr. Coffee." He nodded at the machine, which had just beeped its completion and was flashing in brilliant green numbers _06:34_. "You know where the bowls are?"

Haruka ignored the question, answering by way of retrieving the bowls himself. "What are you doing? The mess hall's been open for a good half hour already; why go through the trouble?"

"Because," Matsuoka reasoned, grabbing a rice paddle in one hand and the bowls Haruka had fetched from a high cabinet in the other. "We're supposed to do shit together." At Haruka's sour frown, he snorted. "Unless you'd rather we walked into the mess hall hand-in-hand and settled down to shoot the breeze with a thousand eyes watching our every move?" He scooped out a generous helping of fluffy, warm rice from the rice cooker and passed it to Haruka. "You seem like a guy who values his privacy, so I'm trying to work with you here."

Haruka fixed his gaze on the rice, tendrils of steam rising from the bowl, in an effort to keep any hesitant questions from showing in his eyes; he didn't like Matsuoka, found him irritating at best and something to be on guard against, _agitated_ over at worst. He brought with him a perfect Drift record and a line of unfit partners--but he seemed bound and determined to keep Haruka from being his latest victim. He hated the bipolar nature of the man's personality, how he was one person in public and another with Haruka; hated _more_ how certain he was that the side Matsuoka showed only him was the real one, the one he could trust. Whatever 'trust' meant when Matsuoka was concerned.

There was something else there, in the Drift, waiting for them—and Matsuoka knew what it was. "Sharks..." he muttered absently to himself, and at Matsuoka's quirked brow and hesitant smile, he shook his head, pulling out the chair nearest him and settling in at the small table. Coffee and white rice was hardly the breakfast of champions, but he couldn't ditch Matsuoka for the mess hall _now_ —not after he'd so cleanly pegged Haruka as preferring his privacy.

Silence settled between them as they dug into their meager meal—Matsuoka with far more vigor than might be expected and Haruka with thoughts far beyond the steel walls of their quarters, already back in the training pod room and churning with anxiety at being forced back into the tank, sensors taped to his chest and relay gel slick and viscous around him, like birthing fluid. He wanted the cool, slipping slide of the pool—not a pons unit. How could _anyone_ be expected to relax and brush minds with their partner when trapped in a tomb of—

"Oi, _Nanase_ —for fuck's sake—" A hand waved in front of his face, and Haruka blinked several times over, biting down hard on the chopsticks still in his mouth. Matsuoka was halfway leaned over the table, his own chopsticks clenched in one hand while he waved the other for Haruka's attention. Satisfied, he settled back with a long-suffering sigh and pursed his lips, nodding to the mostly full rice bowl. "...I screwed it up, didn't I?" Haruka followed his gaze, realizing the implication of his bowl still being full while Matsuoka had wolfed his own down, and felt something uncomfortable lodge in his throat—guilt? Ridiculous. "I figured rice was the simplest thing; thought I could pull it off. Apparently I was wrong."

Haruka shrugged, taking a few large bites for show and keeping his gaze resolutely focused on the faded wood grain of the old table. "It's rice; you can't screw it up." Well, you could—but Matsuoka hadn't, and his voice sounded foreign, not _his_ when it wasn't laced with that air of cocky confidence, so Haruka indulged him a bit. "At least it's fresh, and not instant like they'd serve in the mess hall."

"Good!" Matsuoka shoved his chair back, reaching for the rice scoop to pile another helping into his bowl. "Gotta get your strength up for the pons session, after all."

 _Your_ strength; not _our_. Because Haruka was the problem here, the one who kept screwing up the Handshake—something that was just supposed to _happen_ , and maybe the PPDC had misplaced their faith, overestimating Matsuoka's ability to achieve those perfect sync ratios with _anyone_. Haruka wasn't like most people, would never be that far-off distant _normal_ he longed for, and sooner or later, they were going to ditch him and settle for some green recruit who'd proven capable in training because really, what did it matter, if all they needed was a viable (and disposable) pair to pilot Omega Free for a few test runs?

He settled his chopsticks across the lip of the bowl and reached for the mug of steaming coffee, not bothering to mellow the bitter tang before taking a sip. The aroma and flavor worked in tandem to awaken his senses, and he felt his hunger rising; this meal would've been quite passable if they'd at least had some fish—maybe he could submit a request for a minifridge; if they had to be quartered together, they deserved some perks.

He glanced up at the scrape of Matsuoka's chair across the concrete flooring, watching as he puttered about the kitchen, tidying up the little mess he'd made preparing breakfast. His hair, rather than being the short, military cut the PPDC generally demanded, hung messily low and had been swept back into a short tail at his nape. He narrowed his eyes in confusion; what sorts of lax regulations did they have down there in Sydney? Then again, so long as Matsuoka produced results, perhaps they didn't care how long he wore his hair. If he was going to be sticking around Tokyo for any length of time, though, the Marshal would likely have something to say about it in short order.

"I'm taking first shower—there's some more rice in the cooker if you feel like seconds." He waved a hand vaguely, tugging his hair from its band with the other—then turned and regarded Haruka warily, hesitation almost palpable. "...And if you have any requests, let me know. I can't promise it won't come out tasting like shit, but I figure if I'm the guest here, it's the least I could do." Perhaps his time in Australia hadn't sapped all of the _Japanese_ out of him after all.

Haruka didn't respond, instead glancing down at his rice and coffee; the closest thing to a peace offering he might have expected coming from Matsuoka. A gesture—and one that both confused and intrigued, because what was the point? What did Matsuoka have to lose here if he didn't have Haruka's cooperation? All he needed to do was sit there and be exactly what he was supposed to be, to wait for Haruka to rise to meet expectations. It would be a long wait, most definitely, but Haruka's failure to Drift properly was hardly his concern; leave it to Makoto, to the other NBOs and psych analysts, to Marshal Sasabe who seemed to be laboring under the mistaken impression that Haruka was ever going to be more useful in a Conn-Pod than the Kwoon room.

"...Do you think we'll be able to Drift today?" Haruka muttered softly, but he knew Matsuoka had heard, because the soft scrape of slippers over concrete quieted when he paused just at the threshold leading into the bedroom.

The pause that followed was unbearably long, and Haruka hadn't realized how anxious he'd been to hear the answer until Matsuoka responded socratically, "Do you _want_ to?"

A sharp inhalation—because what kind of question was that? Or rather, what did it matter? They _needed_ to Drift—needed to get out of these training pods and into the Jaeger, needed to get a few runs in so the PPDC was satisfied and Matsuoka could move on to his next assignment and Haruka could get back to the Kwoon room. It didn't _matter_ what Haruka wanted, because war was not the time to focus on _wants_. He swallowed thickly; "Of course." And it didn't sound as much like a lie as he'd expected; maybe he did want to, on some level. Maybe he _did_ kind of wonder what a proper Drift felt like, what might be illuminated if he didn't ignore Matsuoka in the darkness. He wanted to know what Matsuoka knew, what Makoto and the Marshal and the PPDC apparently couldn't imagine. He wanted to see that sight.

He felt Matsuoka smile through vibrations of some thin red string connecting them—slender and strong as spider's silk, and he glanced up sharply. But Matsuoka was already strolling away, waving back at him. "Then yeah; we'll Drift today."

* * *

“Third time’s the charm, right?”

Makoto’s voice was light and flippant, and while he likely hoped the tone would put Haruka at ease, considering the disaster of the previous two Drift attempts, it was unwelcome just at the moment. Makoto ought to know better than most that forced attempts at levity would never work on Haruka, who could read the tension and unease laced in Makoto’s words as easily as if they’d been printed on pages in a book.

He couldn’t exactly blame Makoto, though; there was nothing he could do in this case, save for pressing a few buttons or turning a knob or two, and he must have felt terribly helpless at the realization that nothing he could do would help Haruka drift better. He was a Psych Analyst, and a damn good one at that—had to be, or Marshal Sasabe wouldn’t have assigned him to oversee this project—but there was only so much he could do; Drifting was a binary thing, where you either _were_ or _weren’t_ compatible. It wasn’t Makoto’s fault any Handshake involving Haruka went on the fritz, nor was it Matsuoka’s.

“We’re going as shallow as possible this time, kind of like…trying to introduce your minds to each other. I’ll be sure to cut the Handshake at the first sign of anything going wrong.” He spared Haruka a warm glance that felt more genuine this time. “Maybe you won’t wake up in the medical bay this time.”

Haruka pursed his lips into a frown, well-aware that the jokes were more to settle Makoto’s own nerves than Haruka’s. Makoto continued to prattle on, explaining all of the fine adjustments he’d been working on since their last session, but Haruka tuned him out, still preoccupied with Matsuoka—Matsuoka, and their Drift.

Drifting was a binary thing, yes—but within that binary state of _compatible_ or _incompatible_ were shades of gray, and while any pair of pilots with a sync ratio above a certain threshold could handle the rigors of piloting a Jaeger, only those with that elusive perfect balance really melded as a single unit with the war machines they drove.

He’d often wondered what it felt like—to be _so in sync_ with someone else it felt like wearing their skin, where every move you made, whether your own or not, came out _feeling_ like you’d initiated it. That was a Drift, _that_ was what he would never experience.

It had never truly _bothered_ him before, though; he wasn’t Ranger material, he didn’t have the right mental setup for it (or else the PPDC didn’t feel like training him to control his empathy to where he didn’t overwhelm anyone sitting next to him in a Conn-Pod), and this was just how it was. Drifting sounded interesting, standing against a kaiju for the sake of humanity sounded like _destiny_ , but he had skills that were useful elsewhere. Let the Matsuokas of the world flash their cocky grins and slip into a Drivesuit; he was a Fightmaster.

But then Matsuoka had to go and _blow that plan to pieces_ with that stunt at the pool—and suddenly Drifting wasn’t something he could claim ignorant bliss about, it was an exotic flavor he’d tasted and wanted _more_ of.

His empathy—‘abilities’ Makoto like to call them, though they never made Haruka feel very capable—had always just been something Haruka tolerated, more annoying than anything else. Perhaps someone more gregarious than he might have capitalized on being able to read the flow of emotion around him, used it to gauge what others wanted from him and meet those expectations before they were voiced, but Haruka just wanted _normalcy_. Ignorance truly was bliss—and to endure every burst of excitement or weary draw of frustration was _exhausting_.

Growing up unable to ignore the underlying emotions and intentions in the words and actions of those around him had taught Haruka very early on that people were never what they seemed superficially, that there was always something behind the mask that he might have respected if they’d owned up to it but which instead simply irritated. He’d seen his file, knew that the psych analyst in his recruitment interview had labeled him _bitter_ and _jaded_ , and he didn’t disagree. But it was hard to be much else (or to summon the energy to even _try_ ) when each new day, each new interaction just compounded what Haruka already knew: everyone lied.

But Matsuoka…Matsuoka was different. If he lied, it wasn’t through deliberate subterfuge but through _absence of truth_ , and this strangely made Haruka curious to dig around and find those little nuggets of _real_ , like a game. Matsuoka hid himself behind leers and raised brows and strong coffee early in the morning, and somehow this didn’t frighten as it ought to—it just made Haruka want to force his hand.

No, his empathy had never been something he’d appreciated—but at least he _understood_ it, could temper it to a degree (though it drained him to do so), until the world wasn’t a wave of emotion and feelings crashing over him but a bog he had to wade through. He might occasionally trip and fall and get soaked if he wasn’t careful, even sometimes found himself stuck in a pothole—but overall it was manageable.

The Ghost Drift, though…now _that_ was another beast entirely.

He understood why Makoto had warned him about it—even if he didn’t really understand what had triggered it in the first place. The echoes were something that happened after dozens of Drifts, mental inertia that had you predicting what your partner was going to do before they did it, a kind of resonance between two minds accustomed to working as one. But he and Matsuoka hadn’t known each other a week, had yet to really Drift properly even—Makoto had said it himself: today’s session was about introducing their minds to one another. He couldn’t find Matsuoka in that in-between world if he’d _wanted_ to—so how was a Ghost Drift even possible?

Makoto had tried to tell him it wasn’t real, just his mind playing tricks on him and taking on patterns unique to Matsuoka; any urges he felt weren’t Matsuoka setting up shop in his head, but rather Haruka’s own mind reflecting what it experienced in the Drift.

Still—that most definitely did not explain the rush of images and sensations when Matsuoka had grabbed him, didn’t explain how it had all been so _vivid_ , like stepping into Matsuoka’s skin and seeing a memory through his eyes, heightened ten-fold by touch and empathic harmony. If that was an echo, then how could he ever hope to withstand the real thing? Was _this_ what had undone those half a dozen partners before him? Was being exposed to the full force of _Matsuoka Rin_ that overwhelming and exhilarating and like slicing through the surface of the pool to slide into that place Haruka always found solace?

But tempering the thrill of the Ghost Drift…was the _cold_. The cold that followed Matsuoka around like a bad reputation, a dark foreboding presence that reminded Haruka whatever he felt with Matsuoka, it wasn’t what it seemed. The Drift was pleasing on the surface, but underneath something _lurked_ , and if he wasn’t careful, if Matsuoka didn’t do whatever it was he _did_ to ensure Haruka stayed exactly where he was supposed to in that strange in-between state…the Tokyo Shatterdome would be short one Fightmaster. The vivid, sharp emotions of the Ghost Drift were like new paint already peeling, a futile attempt to distract from the thin shell behind which lurked something big and ominous and _dangerous_.

But he’d known Matsuoka was bad news from day one—so it seemed ridiculous to start worrying about these things now. Makoto wouldn’t understand, and Marshal Sasabe would likely wave it off as unfounded concern, for what could Haruka, who’d never successfully Drifted before, possibly know that their teams of psych analysts and NBOs hadn’t picked up on?

No, Matsuoka’s vow to help him Drift, to walk him through the Handshake properly, was all he had to trust in—because at least Matsuoka knew there was something to be wary of. No ignorant bliss there, just cold, calculated risk-taking.

“I’ll take that,” a voice cut through his thoughts—and Haruka’s head snapped up, because it wasn’t Makoto and it wasn’t one of the pod unit staff members.

“…What’re you doing?” His brows knit in confusion as Matsuoka relieved a nurse of a packet of adhesive EKG sensors, setting it to the side and instead tearing into a package of disinfectant wipes. He pulled one out, stinking of rubbing alcohol, and jerked his chin in apparent order for Haruka to remove his shirt.

When Haruka balked, Matsuoka reached forward with a roll of his eyes, tugging at the hem insistently. “Off.” It wasn’t exactly an answer to Haruka’s question, but Matsuoka was rarely straight with his responses, so Haruka peeled off the gray wifebeater he’d slipped on earlier and allowed Matsuoka to do what he was apparently set on doing.

The subtle rippling shudder he couldn’t help in response to the cool sting of disinfectant being swiped across his chest brought a brief quirking smile of triumph to Matsuoka’s features, but it quickly dissipated, and he kept his voice low and soft when he spoke, stepping in unnecessarily close so as not to be overheard. “In there…” He furrowed his brows, then shook his head as if dislodging a thought and tossed the used wipe in a small garbage can. “When they initiate the Handshake—don’t ignore me.”

Haruka frowned, eyes tracking Matsuoka’s fingers warily as they fumbled with peeling off the adhesive backing of the first of the sensors. “…That’s not what you told me before.”

“Forget what I told you before.” He gave a little shove to Haruka's chest—harder than was probably needed—to ensure the sensor stuck in place, then reached into the packet for another.

“…But you’re supposed to clear your mind in the Drift; focusing on any one memory just—”

And now Matsuoka was _definitely_ being purposefully vicious with the sensors, sharply slapping a hand over one just below his armpit to seal it in position. “Are you gonna repeat the tripe the Academy spoon-feeds you or listen to the voice of experience?” he snapped with evident frustration, and his eyes flashed a bit here with warning, leaving Haruka with the sick dawning realization that Matsuoka was genuinely concerned—which meant there was something to be concerned _about_.

He straightened obediently, pulling his shoulders back and fixing his gaze on a distant point in space, letting Matsuoka continue with the application unhindered. “…You want me to look for you, then?”

Matsuoka soothed the seal of a sensor over his right pectoral, brows twitching together in distant, distracted consideration tinged with concern. “…No, best not to,” he eventually concluded, then reached into the bag of sensors and pulled out another, gently and methodically applying this one right over Haruka’s heart. “…I’ll find you,” he muttered, mostly to himself, and spread his palm out wide over the sensor, lingering.

Haruka swallowed thickly and kept his gaze fixed on that far point, uncomfortably conscious of his heart thudding with a deep, bass thrum just beneath Matsuoka’s fingers. He coughed softly, and the spell was broken, Matsuoka jerking back as if he’d been burned and clearing his throat as he fumbled to place the final few sensors.

“I still don’t understand what exactly you intend to do,” Haruka grumbled as Matsuoka quickly filled in the gaps between sensors with more until a wavy line of them dotted his chest from right to left; it was one thing not to understand the finer points of Drifting when Makoto tried to explain it. At least he trusted that even if he didn’t quite understand it, Makoto did, and there was a team of capable individuals who knew exactly what was going on. Matsuoka claimed knowledge surpassing Makoto—surpassing the PPDC even—and that power imbalance unsettled Haruka.

Matsuoka’s lips quirked up at one side, and while Haruka didn’t really like the expression, at least it was familiar, and not the distant, distracted concern he’d let slip moments ago. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me,” he remarked smartly, soothing the edges of a sensor just to the right of Haruka’s clavicle before adding a mirror to the left. “Rest comfortably in the knowledge that you’re in _very_ capable hands.”

Haruka’s glare spoke volumes, and Matsuoka snorted his amusement, waving the last of the sensors in his face. “Do you want to see that sight…or not?” he taunted, voice soft and teasing as he gently ran a finger over the adhesive edges of another sensor, sealing this one just over the sensitive skin above Haruka’s hipbone. He fought the urge to take a step back and stifled the uncomfortable roll his stomach gave, glad none of the leads had yet been attached to advertise the spike in his heart rate.

Matsuoka kept dangling this _sight_ over his head, like a carrot before a horse, and Haruka knew in his gut he ought to be ashamed he was actually, _genuinely_ intrigued to root out the truth in Matsuoka's words; what could he have seen, what could he have to _show_ that dozens of pilots before them hadn't already been privy to? But shameful as it was, he was still inexorably drawn to this _knowledge_ Matsuoka boasted, wanted desperately—disturbingly so—to know what reached out for him when they tried to Drift, what Matsuoka was pulling him free from. Even if it scared the _shit_ out of him—he still had to know.

He shunted his gaze off to the side, pursing his lips in irritation, and gave a curt little nod—the bare minimum. Matsuoka's grin pulsed in his mind, though, radiating off of him in waves of guilty anticipation, and he applied the final sensor just over Haruka's left hip with a sharp slap, tweaking the tiny bit of flab at his waist in a two-fingered pinch that set Haruka to hissing his pain and shoving him bodily away. "Then get in the pod!" he crowed with a wave, sauntering away towards his own pod on the other side of the makeshift LOCCENT setup.

Attendants scurried back in now to hook the leads to the sensors on Haruka's chest and abdomen, fitting him with a mesh shirt to replace his own wifebeater before helping him into the pod. It was already filled halfway with lukewarm relay gel, and Haruka inwardly groaned, longing to be slipping instead into a cool bath. He hadn't had time for more than a quick shower earlier, and the day never felt _right_ starting without his usual morning soak.

Makoto stood before the pod's control panel, making some last minute adjustments, and after giving a reassuring smile that Haruka resolutely ignored—he _didn't_ need to be babied, and he wasn't _afraid_ (not of Drifting, at least)—he punched in a sequence on the keypad that had the lid sliding closed with a soft hiss.

The low, glowing lights lining the inside of the pons unit slowly faded, until only brilliant flashes behind Haruka's eyelids remained, and he began to take deep, calming breaths in and out, willing his heartrate to slow and distraction to slip into the back of his mind.

After a long exhalation, he reached up with shaking fingers and brushed the pads over the adhesive backing of the sensor just over his heart, building in his mind's eye an image of Matsuoka, expression torn and distant as he spoke of finding Haruka, whatever _finding Haruka_ meant. He hadn't the faintest clue, but he could somehow envision it—could hear Matsuoka calling him already, from far away, but getting all the time sharper and clearer and more desperate. Just waiting for Haruka to respond and form that uplink.

_"Prepare for Neural Handshake."_

* * *

For the longest time, there was _nothing_ , and Haruka reflected distantly that this, at least, was progress; he was conscious, _aware_ , but nothing was happening—no darkness, no rush of memories that Matsuoka had siphoned from caretakers and acquaintances over the years as a mental facade that might have fooled a rookie Ranger but could never convince someone who could _feel_ the content of those memories as much as see them. There was nothing here, and that was both comforting and unsettling at once.

 _I'll find you_ , Matsuoka had said, and Haruka wondered if he'd known there'd be all this _nothing_ to sort through before he could reach Haruka; how was he ever going to find him...when there was nothing _to_ find? He wasn't supposed to ignore Matsuoka—but he also wasn't supposed to actively _search_ for him, and while part of him might have considered ignoring the advice just to spite Matsuoka, it was overshadowed by the discomfiting memory of the flash of panic in Matsuoka's features, an unwelcome reminder that there was something to fear in the Drift.

So he didn't look; and he didn't ignore. He _listened_ —because that wasn't forbidden, and if there was one thing he was good at, it was sitting quietly, doing nothing, and just letting the weight of the world wash over him. Pain and anger and irritation tugged him down, but joy and elation and excitement lifted him up, until he was bobbing about up and down on waves of emotions that weren't his own and could almost convince himself he was _floating_. He closed his eyes, letting those hard-learned lessons buoy him now, and listened close—listened _hard_ —for Matsuoka.

A hand stretched out, palm open and waiting, and he whispered to himself— _Come_.

"Don't move."

His stomach leapt into his throat—or whatever the equivalent of that reaction was in this in-between space. Matsuoka's warning sounded right by his ear, the low drone of unease laced in his tone echoing an irritating background noise Haruka couldn't tune out. A phantom hand settled onto his shoulder, steering him forward through the nothing until it became _something_ —a path, narrow and steep but very much there. "Don't turn around," Matsuoka's disembodied voice warned further, and Haruka couldn't have disobeyed if he'd _wanted_ to. "Just keep your focus ahead; don't go chasing any R.A.B.I.T.s, not now of all times."

The hand that didn't exist tightened on his shoulder, and Haruka unconsciously leaned into it, certain that his heart monitor must be fluctuating worrisomely—Makoto was probably going grayer by the minute. He followed where Rin pointed him, though, without question, a plodding neverending trek forward into the nothingness that would have left him feeling lost and just as disembodied as the hand on his shoulder were it not for Matsuoka's voice by his ear and sure presence at his back. He was not alone, and even if it had to be _Matsuoka_ here with him, he was glad for it.

But this...was not a Drift. This wasn't even Ghost Drifting, this was still in that in-between where darkness licked at the edges of consciousness but—for now—was kept at bay. Jaeger pilots were supposed to be _partners_ , two minds working as one to control a piece of machinery too much for one to handle alone. Matsuoka had finally found him, had responded to Haruka's call like he'd been _waiting_ for it, and yet while it felt like progress...the nothingness was a harsh reminder that if this was how it was between them, if he had to have his hand held through every Drift, they were never going to be able to pilot properly.

Maybe this was a fool's errand; maybe this would be the end, maybe Makoto would get the data he needed to finally convince the Marshal to send Haruka back to the Kwoon room and get Matsuoka set up with a new partner. They'd be taking Omega Free out on runs before the week was out, settling into a Conn Pod next to each other like they'd been _born_ for it--

A knowing chuckle that sent ripples of amusement out into the ether around them. "We're stronger together than you think _...Haru_."

And something _snapped_ inside—not broken, but finally _complete_ , like the final piece of a puzzle slipping into place, and a bubbling effervescence coursed through Haruka's veins, sending a fizzy shudder up his spine at the sound ( _thought?_ ) of that name on Matsuoka's lips.

He wasn't _Haru_ ; he was _Nanase_ —that was his name, a proper PPDC officer’s address. Makoto couldn't be helped, because it was easier to just give in and let him have his way, but Matsuoka—

"So let me have my way too, _Haru_ ~" Matsuoka interrupted his thoughts, and Haruka might have been tempted to fire back at him not to intrude, that it was rude to pry into your Drift Partner's thoughts like that, but the grip on his shoulder tightened painfully just as Haruka was sideswiped by a wave of—it was hard to describe. It was like...being assaulted by some physical manifestation of all the _wrong_ he'd felt during those previous Drift attempts. That big, ominous foreboding given flesh and slamming into Haruka, trying to knock him off the path with insistent buffets of _need and greed and hunger and_ —

Haruka made a face, the foul taste of bile seeping through his skin and every open orifice, a rush of unease like the wake of a jetboat leaving a slick of oil across the surface of the water. If he opened his mouth and inhaled, he'd just get a lungful of primitive sensation and utterly _inhuman_ emotion.

They were not alone.

Haruka had never been alone before, even in his head; he’d grown up enduring the constant insistent clamoring of a thousand thoughts and idle ponderings forming a dull, incessant background drone to the everyday. So he could recognize it when he felt it—the heavy tugging _will_ of countless minds calling for his attention, begging to be heard, _listened to_.

"Ignore it," Matsuoka ground out through clenched teeth, and his breathing was labored with effort. His nails dug into the soft flesh of Haruka's shoulder, painful but welcome all the same because it was at least something _human_. Something _familiar_ —an anchor. "It's...something you'll have to learn to deal with. When you Drift with me,” he continued, voice steadier but still strained, as if he'd long-ago adjusted to the rigors of whatever lay out in the desolate wasteland between the Real and the Drift.

 _Deal with_. He'd have to _deal with_ this uncomfortable weight of a thousand eyes on him, on Matsuoka. He'd have to _deal with_ feeling like one wrong move would bring those eyes down upon him, to drag him off the beaten path and down into the darkness where he already knew he couldn't hide. He wanted to ask how the hell any sane person could be expected to _deal with_ this, but instead what came out was, "...Did your other partners feel this, too...?"

Was this _the sight_? But no, surely Matsuoka wasn't that sadistic; surely when the time came, when he finally _saw it_ , he'd know.

Matsuoka managed a soft chuckle, the effort of keeping Haruka where he needed to be vibrating over their connection. "Nah...you're just special like that."

Special; that word again. Haruka _hated_ being special. When he was ten, everyone had cooed over him and called him precocious, said he had _potential_. When he was fifteen, they had thrummed that he had powers, was going places, would do his hometown proud. But twenty had promised normalcy, banality—and he'd thought he'd finally achieved it. He liked being a Nobody; he didn't want to be _special_. Especially not if it meant _dealing with_ things.

Something tickled at the back of his mind, and he unconsciously turned into it, shifting his attention like a moth following a flame—he reached out attentively, opening himself up. Maybe—maybe if he accepted the other presences proactively, they wouldn't overwhelm him, maybe Matsuoka couldn't withstand it, but Haruka was used to enduring the wash of emotion and thought and feeling that came with crowds. It was like stepping into the frigid waters of the ocean in early spring; best to just get it over with—it would be easier to get used to it if he—

" _HARU!_ " Matsuoka snapped, voice high and frantic like in that first Drift, and Haruka faltered—but didn't trip, though he did stop, frozen in place and oblivious to the fact that his heart was thudding a distressingly sharp tempo. Matsuoka's hand had migrated from his shoulder, now crooked possessively around his neck to tug him close, flush against Matsuoka's chest. He could feel Matsuoka's nose buried in the short hairs behind his ear, breath short and stilted as it came out in huffs against his nape. "Don't...don't draw attention to yourself," he warned, tripping over the words and punctuating the order with a tight, desperate hug. "...Do as I do, walk where I walk. When we're here—you _have_ to listen to me."

And it had never occurred to Haru, funnily enough, _not to_. Matsuoka knew more, Matsuoka _understood_ more—and that surety was a comforting balm against the wrong. "...Listen to you...?" he repeated, mostly because Matsuoka wasn't making any sense; Haruka was listening, had always been listening. Listening was what he _did_.

"Yes—listen to me. Because if you don't, if you step off the path I point you down, if you _go out there searching_ , they'll _find_ you." Haruka wanted to ask who _they_ were—but Matsuoka's next words stilled the breath in his lungs: "And I can't save you then."

He didn't have many memories of his youth—not because he'd forgotten them, only because he'd never really _made_ many. School had been school and Makoto had been Makoto, and then there were the kaiju, and everything else kind of just faded into the background in comparison. But the few truly vivid memories he retained, even now, were of his grandmother. She'd taught him a lot—and he'd been a quick study. Not in numbers or facts or figures, but about _himself_. About how he was to interact with the world around him, what he was to take in and make a part of himself, and how to keep others at distance in turn.

She'd warned him once, in one of his earliest memories, that he must never ever listen too closely to the spirits that shared the world around them, mournful shades too confused and lost to pass on. They were earthbound as penance for crimes in life, doomed to wander until they'd atoned for their sins—and the living must ignore them, must never give them something to cling to. For in doing so, the spirits could latch on to your soul, find purchase and take root, ousting the host spirit and replacing it with their own.

 _Don't listen to the dead; keep your eyes on the living_.

She’d tried to warn him all those years ago, and now here was Matsuoka, arms tight around his neck and voice a breathy, desperate plea in his ear, heart pounding through Haruka’s back and forcing his own to sync its beat—the Drift, two bodies, two minds, working as one.

He didn’t need to know what the thousand eyes were, he didn’t need to know what would happen if _they_ found him; he just needed to give himself over to Matsuoka and let himself be carried through to the Drift. Once there, they’d be back on equal footing, and he’d learn to cope with this just like he’d learned to tune out the whispering thoughts and feelings licking at the edges of his consciousness over the years. It was only temporary, after all, and it wasn’t painful or burdensome, only disconcerting, unsettling; he could _deal with it_.

He brought fingers up, slowly, and settled them across the tense muscles of Matsuoka’s forearms, giving a light pat of reassurance. “…Fine. I’ll stay here, I won’t look for them. I’ll do as you say.” And when Matsuoka didn’t relax his grip, he added with some mild irritation he hoped comforted with its familiarity, “…You’re starting to choke me; let go.”

Immediately the grip relaxed, and Haruka took in a sharp breath, following with a slow, calming exhalation. He could still feel Matsuoka hovering worriedly, attention spread thin, and without a backward glance, he reached behind him, groped for Matsuoka’s wrist, and wrapped his fingers around until he gained purchase—tugging him forward. “Come on.”

“Y—yeah,” Matsuoka agreed stupidly, but the thinly stretched focus began to spiral down, curling in on itself and wrapping about the two of them like a shield. He could feel bits of Matsuoka brushing along at the edges of his consciousness, inspecting for cracks and damage, and Haruka wanted to snap with irritation that he wasn’t weak, whatever was out there hadn’t found them.

“How much further?” he tried in an effort to distract Matsuoka from his incessant probing.

“Eh?”

Haruka waved a hand at the nothing. “When do we actually get to Drift? I never heard about this place in Training…”

Matsuoka snickered, his walls going back up solid and strong again. “You wanna Drift with me that badly, Nanase~?” Haruka scoffed, but this only brought on a genuine chuckle which shortly subsided into distant recollection. “Mmm, they probably wouldn’t have mentioned it…most people don’t exactly linger here…”

“Linger?”

“The Handshake Front; the space where two minds seek each other out to join a Drift together… The incompatible ones never find each other; the compatible ones link up right away.”

“…So what are we doing here, then?” Did that mean they weren’t Drift Compatible after all? They’d found each other, hadn’t they? Matsuoka was _here_ ; Haruka could _feel_ him, could almost sink backwards through his chest and wear his body like a second skin. They could _Drift_.

“Waiting…” Matsuoka explained without really _explaining_ anything at all.

“For _what_?” Haruka pressed, growing tired of the vagueries Matsuoka dealt in. He could ignore the horde watching their every move if he distracted himself, but Matsuoka’s riddles were proving poor fodder. He needed action, a task to set about completing. 

“Are you always this impatient?”

And no, he wasn’t, actually—but the Watchers out in the desolate nothing and the frustration of ceding control over their situation to Matsuoka and the temptation of being _so close_ to finally Drifting was starting to weigh, and even if everything went to hell after this, he just wanted it over with. He was tired of reacting, tired of waking up in the medical bay and having the last few hours related to him second-hand. He was _tired_ of—

“Okay, okay geez… It was a simple question…” Matsuoka groused, but happy little whiffs of amusement washed over Haruka, clear evidence of Matsuoka’s pleasure at the reaction. “Should be good enough now—I guess we’ll find out.”

“Find out?” That didn’t sound very confident. “Oi, Matsuoka, what are—”

“Time to Drift, Haru,” Matsuoka interrupted, pressing up against his back again and twisting his wrist in the grip Haruka still maintained on him to lace their fingers together. “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you, though~” he sing-songed. 

Before Haruka could ask what that meant, though—his eyes shot open, and he blinked into the murky black before him, relay gel sloshing around his ears and muffling any sounds beyond the sickening slurp of viscous liquid against the walls of the pod. He was back—he was back inside the pons unit, conscious, and—

He lifted a hand, reaching up to brush the inner surface of the pod hatch, and traced something—kanji. _Matsu…oka_. A frown—he hadn’t thought about doing that, it had just happened, like a natural extension of his own consciousness. Was that Drifting? Minds merged so cleanly that it was impossible to tell where your thoughts ended and theirs began?

Mechanical whirring followed by the soft hiss of the hatch unclasping interrupted his wonder, and Makoto forced the hatch open with a relieved smile. “Haru…!”

Haruka lay there, suspended in relay gel, with a name not his own drawn shoddily in condensation on the hatch, and just stared up at the ceiling, letting it all sink in.

* * *

The official Drift duration had been a laughable fifty seconds, but it was longer—and stronger—than any previous brushes and had been disconnected properly. Makoto had been over the moon, delivering the results of the test with a grin stretched across his features and a relieved flush to his cheeks. “You _did it_ , Haru-chan!” and Haruka hadn’t had the heart (or the strength) to tell him to drop the “-chan” this time.

They’d disrupted the Drift purely for protocol, Makoto insisted, but the findings were more than promising; the third time had, it seemed, indeed been the charm, and after another pod session in 24 hours, to ensure this hadn’t been a fluke, Haruka and Matsuoka would be ready to try the Conn-Pod once more.

“Get some rest, Haru-chan,” Makoto had insisted with a squeeze to his shoulder, and Haruka had fought the urge to shake him off—uncomfortably reminded of Matsuoka’s hand guiding him through the in-between. There were no more eyes out here, only the usual droning buzz of human emotions, but the sensation of being watched continued to linger. 

Underneath the discomfort, though, was a sparking undercurrent of something Haruka had long since done away with: _excitement_ —excitement for the Drift. Matsuoka had practically _skipped_ out of the pons room and into the changing area to strip down and back into their fatigues, but that was _Matsuoka_ ; he seemed perpetually brimming with emotion, like he’d been filled too full and couldn’t help bubbling over. Haruka wasn’t _like that_ though; he just never felt his emotions were too much to contain, tamping them down and keeping a calm surface.

Maybe it was the Ghost Drift; maybe finally _connecting_ with Matsuoka like that had infected him with those quirks that irritated Haruka so. Maybe this was just the beginning.

“Pretty awesome, right?” Matsuoka leered, bumping shoulders with Haruka as they exited the locker rooms; they’d been given leave for the rest of the day while the psych analyst team crunched their numbers and were to report the next morning for a final test run before being relocated to the Jaeger bay for subsequent testing, provided all went well.

“I guess…” Haruka allowed with a shrug, careful to keep the echoing flush brought on by Matsuoka’s infectious enthusiasm from showing. It was catching, like all of Matsuoka’s emotions on some level, and Haruka fought against being washed away. Maybe, though—maybe he could do this. Maybe he could be a _Pilot_. Maybe if he trained enough with Matsuoka, if he learned control under Matsuoka’s guidance—he’d be able to find someone compatible. He wouldn't need to be a Fightmaster—could finally _do_ something worthwhile.

Or maybe—his stomach gave a giddy lurch—the Marshal would make them a real team, would give them Omega Free, if they proved capable. They had weeks of testing ahead, plenty of time to get their bearings, and Matsuoka didn’t have a designated Drift Partner, so it wasn’t like they’d be breaking up an established team. Maybe—

“Oi, _Haru_ ,” Matsuoka huffed, clapping a hand on his shoulder and giving an impatient shake. Haruka rolled his shoulder in irritation, quickly collecting himself and ashamed to have been caught _daydreaming_ —but Matsuoka didn’t seem to take offense, jerking a thumb at the stairwell door they’d stopped before. “Race to see who gets first shower when we get back?” They’d rinsed off back in the locker rooms—but nothing more than a cursory splash of water to wash the relay gel from their skin. Haruka longed for a scrub-down followed up by a nice, relaxing soak—and he hadn’t considered the fact that Matsuoka might want the same and would fight him for it. Matsuoka raised a brow at his silence, suggesting, “…Or we could rock-paper-scissors for it?”

But of course he knew Haruka would never turn down a few laps in the pool, and ignoring the ludicrous suggestion, Haruka shoved past him into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time in an effort to leave Matsuoka behind. 

“It’s not so bad inside my head, right?” Matsuoka offered easily, tugging on his swim cap as they sauntered into the natatorium after changing, and Haruka responded with another ambivalent shrug. He hadn’t stopped to take account, really, barely even registering that they had been Drifting before the Handshake had been severed, and looking back now, while he did appreciate Makoto taking every precaution…he might have liked to have savored it a bit longer. There would be time aplenty for that in the future, though.

Matsuoka snorted at the response, listing to the side to bump shoulders with Haruka. “Good grief, don’t go all sappy on me now, Haru~” Haruka flashed him a glare, less than thrilled that he’d carried the moniker out of the Drift—which probably meant he was planning on sticking with it. “Just don’t go peeking.” He waved a finger, hopping up onto the starting block. “It’s not polite to pry, after all.” Haruka frowned at the insinuation, and Matsuoka quirked a leer. “And in exchange, I promise not to pry into _your_ mind.”

“I don’t have anything to hide,” Haruka huffed, stepping around to mount the block next to Matsuoka and tugging his goggles over his eyes. 

Matsuoka’s grin went sharp and secretive as he pulled his own goggles down into place, crouching into a start. “Everyone’s got something to hide.”


	6. Chapter 6

“And how would you say you’re feeling, Haru-chan?”

“Don’t call me ‘-chan’.”

Makoto smiled to himself, scribbling something on his notepad, and settled more comfortably into his chair. “I’ll note that as a ‘no change’ then…”

Haruka didn’t respond, distracting himself for the fifth time in as many minutes by glancing around Makoto’s office. It was nicer than most of the analysts were assigned, but Haruka suspected that was due less in part to Makoto’s design aesthetic and more to the fact that he probably spent more time out on the floor than in the office and therefore had less opportunity to render it the disaster area most PPDC staff offices became after a few weeks on the job.

He was presently reclining on a small chaise lounge that had him feeling uncomfortably like he was here for a psychiatric session—but then, he supposed he kind of _was_. “Drift Therapy”, Makoto had called it the first time he’d asked Haruka to come in two days before—except Haruka had a hard time believing that when he was the only one sitting here. Matsuoka hadn’t mentioned being called in, and they were still spending most every hour of the day together—so if he’d been subjected to ‘therapy’ as well, Haruka was quite sure he would have noticed. Further compounding confusion as to just what the point of these sessions was were the frustratingly vague questions Makoto posed— _how are you feeling? are you finding the Drift easier to enter now? have you ever felt unsafe in the Drift?_ That last one had thrown him, and it had grated for some reason that Makoto had made note of just how long it had taken Haruka to respond to it.

If he wanted hard data on Haruka’s Drifting ability, he likely had stacks of readouts to leaf through, which meant whatever Makoto wanted to know—whatever the Marshal wanted him to ferret out—had less to do with numbers and more to do with the mental strain of the Drift. The whole exercise was ridiculous, though, as far as he was concerned; if they were Drifting satisfactorily, then that was all that mattered, wasn’t it? He’d already clocked in more Drift time with Matsuoka than any of his previous partners, with no sign of Drifter Bends beyond the occasional bout of nausea that had less to do with being yanked out of a deep Drift too quickly and more with the novelty of Drifting _period_.

After several days now of Conn Pod sessions—hours of total Drift exposure—he’d finally caught on to how exactly one was supposed to Drift with the enigma that was Matsuoka Rin. They spent less time in the strange, cold headspace where something ( _things_ ) watched them and linked up more quickly, their sync ratios settling in the green range that made the NBOs sigh with relief, and while there was still the uneasy buzzing in the back of Haruka’s head whenever they Drifted, a fuzzy film that dulled reaction time and muffled their connection with distraction, they were evidently performing well enough together that the Marshal already had them—and Omega Free—on the docket for an open water run Monday morning. 

Makoto was writing something again, brows furrowed behind the thick glasses he didn’t really need but wore anyway, claiming they made him look smarter; Haruka just thought they made him look older. Maybe that was the point. “…Can I go now?” he hazarded, trying not to seem like he was running away.

Makoto was Makoto, though, and understood Haruka’s motives regardless, and with a quirked brow, he prompted, “Hot date?” Haruka cut him a sharp frown, and Makoto laughed entirely too loudly for his taste, especially when he likely already knew what Haruka’s plans consisted of, seeing as Matsuoka hadn’t made any secret of how irritated he was that Haruka had been scheduled for these therapy sessions right in the middle of the precious little free time officers were granted in the evenings—time when Matsuoka liked to bully Haruka into races in the natatorium. “All right, all right,” Makoto allowed, waving Haruka off. “Get going, before Matsuoka wears a hole in the floor with his pacing.”

Haruka ducked a nod, tugging on the pullover he’d stripped off in the stifling confines of Makoto’s office—just because it was only early Spring outside didn’t make the lack of natural circulation underground any more bearable. He couldn’t make his way to the natatorium fast enough—and half-wondered if Matsuoka might be up to a foot race to get there. 

He swiped a thumb over the security sensor on his tablet—no urgent messages he’d missed—then slipped it into his bag and settled its strap across his shoulder, turning to bid Makoto farewell.

“Haru-chan.”

He froze in place, ankle twisted in the midst of a turn, because that tone told him it wasn’t Makoto the Psych Analyst speaking now, but Makoto his best friend, Makoto the one person in the whole Shatterdome who gave a shit about him beyond his ability (or lack thereof) to Drift or his Kwoon Combat Room record in Jaeger Bushido. He responded with a flick of his gaze, eyes steady and waiting.

“…You’d tell me, right? If…” He scratched the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with his reasons for stalling Haruka here. “If something were wrong?” And some spark of confusion must have registered on Haruka’s features, for he scrambled to clarify, “Just—if something felt…off? Or—if the Drift sessions were having any sort of…ill effects…” He trailed off, clearly not even sure himself what he was asking, but he squared his shoulders again at length and rephrased his question: “Even if it wasn’t here, in these meetings…you’d tell me if something were _wrong_ , right?”

Wrong—off—ill. He could have used any combination of those terms and a dozen others to describe every moment of being in those training units or the Conn Pod with Matsuoka, because there was nothing _right_ about that headspace of nothingness and endless searching and dark, grasping tentacles and countless consciousnesses hungrily groping for him. There was nothing _right_ about waking up in the medical bay time and time again, having lost hours of his life with little to show for it beyond a few extra hours’ rest and new quarters he could just as easily have done without. There was nothing _right_ about Matsuoka or Ghost Drifting or sights that he wasn’t supposed to _want_ to see but still desperately yearned for, for some inexplicable reason. 

How was he supposed to come to Makoto with what was _wrong_ …when that was _everything_? Where was he supposed to start? Would Makoto force them to shut down the Drift sessions? Did Haruka want that? Wasn’t that the stuff of his nightmares these days—Matsuoka in a Conn Pod taking Omega Free out for runs, and Haruka _not there next to him_? How did he go about explaining that? That he hated how it felt, Drifting with Matsuoka—except he needed it, craved it, felt _exhilarated_ by it, because maybe Matsuoka was the only person he’d ever be able to Drift with, and how could he possibly give that up? The subtle rush of power, the novelty of being _that close_ with someone, wearing their skin and feeling what they felt a million times more keenly than the pitiful imitation that was his empathy—

“Easy, Haru,” a voice urged by his ear, and a large, warm hand came up and squeezed his shoulder. “Forget I asked; you know what you’re doing, I’m sure.” And he hated how confident Makoto sounded, so _sure_ that Haruka would make good choices, would put the mission of the Jaeger program over his own wishes and desires—because Makoto was supposed to know him, inside and out, and when had Haruka ever been unselfish? When had he ever toed the _for the greater good_ line?

Matsuoka was right; no one piloted for the good of humanity, everyone had their secrets and dark reasons for doing what they did, and anyone who boasted otherwise was a liar. He didn’t mind being a liar; he just didn’t want Makoto thinking he was perfect.

Another squeeze to his shoulder, and this time Makoto shook him. “Same time tomorrow? And I’ll expect more stimulating conversation, then, so at least bring some good stories. Surely you’ve got something on Matsuoka I can give the other analysts for gossip fodder by now? Leaves the seat up on the commode? Can’t sleep without his special pillow?” Haruka spared him a perplexed glance, and he chuckled, giving Haruka a shove toward the door. “Go.”

Matsuoka was exactly where he’d been following the previous few therapy sessions: leaning with arms crossed against the far wall, looking like he’d been dozing but suddenly wide awake when Haruka crossed the threshold. He cast a glance over Haruka’s shoulder, trying to steal a glimpse into Makoto’s office—but Makoto had already shut the door (and locked it, by the sound of things). 

Shoving his hands into the pockets of the pullover, Haruka made his way toward the main corridor, Matsuoka falling into step beside him. “…Good session?” he hazarded awkwardly, dipping his head forward with one brow raised slightly above the other as he attempted to get Haruka to look at him.

Haruka shrugged, disaffected. “Same as always.”

“Don’t know why they make you go; if you were gonna snap, surely it would’ve happened by now.” He punctuated the comment with a toothy grin, as if the notion were some grand joke instead of a harsh reality locked behind security files Haruka hadn’t had permission to access. “So—pool? Or are you hungry? We can avoid the evening mess rush if we put off hitting the hall until after our laps?”

Haruka grunted, but this was evidently not enough for Matsuoka, who grabbed his shoulders from behind and gave a little shake. “Geez, lighten up, Haru! Your boring-ass therapy session or whatever’s over—and now you get to have your ass handed to you by one of the PPDC’s best and brightest.” He leaned heavily onto Haruka here, nearly tripping him. “Very few get to enjoy such an honor.”

“Get—off—“

“Get the stick out of your ass first—and maybe I’ll think about it.” Haruka lifted an elbow, poking Matsuoka in his vulnerable ribs and sending him scrambling back with a yelp, rubbing at the offended area. “Well, so long as you asked nicely.”

Haruka fought the urge to roll his eyes and began walking again, allowing, “Pool first. Then dinner.”

“Yes sir, Fightmaster Nanase~” Matsuoka sang, looping an arm around his neck and dragging him close, offering his silence for the rest of the trek to the natatorium in exchange for Haruka not protesting the closeness.

In the nearly one week now since they’d been forced into uncomfortably cozy quarters, Haruka had learned several things about Matsuoka. He _did_ leave the seat up, he _did_ have a pillow he couldn’t sleep without—and perhaps most perplexingly, he _did_ have an inexplicable need for _touch_. It didn’t seem to matter the form—bumping shoulders trying to use the sink at the same time as they brushed their teeth before reporting to the Drive Room, a sharp slap across the back when Haruka wasn’t making his way out the door fast enough for Matsuoka’s liking, leaning heavily across Haruka’s shoulders as he stretched for his morning _kata_ s and asking why he bothered when they’d never see any action together anyway. He was tactile—uncomfortably so at times—and took advantage of any excuse he could find (or make up) to _touch_.

Haruka understood it ought to have grated— _would_ have if it had been anyone else—but Matsuoka’s casual tactility seemed to close some sort of circuit, settled the flickers of the Ghost Drift that lurked at the corners of their minds to give them glimpses into each other’s thought patterns and quieted the soft but incessant humming that seemed to follow them out of the Drift, the countless minds watching in the nothingness made real and only softened by the brush of skin against skin.

All of these things were, he understood, the things Makoto wanted him to talk about in their therapy sessions. Well, maybe not the toilet or the pillow thing—but these were the _wrong_ things he was supposed to confess. Not “wrong” in the sense of being _bad_ necessarily—just “wrong” in the sense of _not right_.

But some part of Haruka balked, the words forever on the tip of his tongue, because even if he had a duty to report these things…it felt almost like it wasn’t his _place_. Matsuoka shared these sides of himself with Haruka and no one else—likely for good reason, and he didn’t need the Drift or empathy to understand that if he didn’t tread lightly, if strayed off the path Matsuoka had paved for him…he’d be shut out. And while he might have appreciated a more professional relationship initially, one that didn’t involve touching and gloating and coffee the perfect temperature and toast just this side of burned, he’d gotten used to the way things were now. He’d take the devil he knew a thousand times over.

Hitting the pool earlier meant they no longer had the natatorium to themselves, but it was easy enough to find an open lane or two not being used for aquacising off-duty officers or recruits trying to improve their lap times to impress their superiors. They changed in silence, choosing lockers on opposite sides of the long bench running the length of the lockers but never straying far from one another; it wasn’t on purpose—at least not on Haruka’s part—but he always found himself unconsciously drifting close to Matsuoka, startled whenever he would turn around and find himself facing Matsuoka’s back, or shifting to the side and bumping into Matsuoka’s shoulders when they’d started off several columns of lockers apart. _Magnetism_ , he likened it to—and made a face at the thought.

“C’mon, don’t look like that—I haven’t even kicked your ass yet and already you’re pitching a fit?” Matsuoka grinned wide and tugged at his elbow as he grabbed his goggles and swim cap to stumble out of the locker room. “There was an open lane toward the far side when we came in; let’s go see if we can claim it.”

They drew up to the starting block, the lanes on either side taken up by fellow officers or recruits blowing off steam, and Haruka wondered if they were going to fight over who got to take first run, but Matsuoka had a _look_ , like he’d planned the other lanes to be taken up, and Haruka felt an uncomfortable churning in his gut, because he needed this—needed the release and freedom of a good, hard swim—and he didn’t want Matsuoka ruining it.

But as usual with Matsuoka, he really didn’t have any choice in the matter, so when Matsuoka turned to him brows raised, he just let his shoulders slump in resignation. “ _What?_ ”

“Let’s relay,” was the prompt invitation, and Matsuoka tugged on his wrist insistently, pointing down the lane. “We’ve only got the one lane, and we could always use the practice.”

“Practice?” What did a relay have to do with their orders?

“You know,” Matsuoka prodded, then dropped his voice. “The Drift.”

“…I still don’t follow.” The words were bitter, and Haruka regretted admitting as such only a moment later. It was one thing being open and honest before Makoto, someone Haruka knew wouldn’t judge him. It was a different matter entirely being like that with _Matsuoka_ , who seemed to be Haruka’s own personal mirror, reflecting back all of the nasty, dark things he didn’t like to acknowledge about himself. 

Matsuoka just rolled his eyes and settled down onto the starting block, tugging his goggles on to hang around his neck while he tucked a few unruly stranded of hair into his cap. “They’ve got it all backwards, you know.”

“They?”

“The PPDC. They think the Bridge is what helps people Drift, and the Ghost Drift’s just an echo—“ He raised a finger. “But really it’s the other way around.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and peered up at Haruka. “Drifting using the Bridge is just… _primitive_. Electric impulses and wiring and relay gel—you shouldn’t need that shit to Drift. Not if you’re _really_ compatible. It ought to be innate, ought to just _happen_.” He snapped a finger. “Like that.”

He stood again, drawing up tall, and stepped forward—and suddenly the two or so centimeters of height difference seemed more obvious, an uneasy sense of inferiority brought about by all this knowledge that Matsuoka boasted but never _explained_. “…And what does that have to do with the relay?”

Matsuoka snapped his hands out, long fingers immediately twining about Haruka’s wrists, and he felt a flash of eagerness, restrained excitement—an beckoning, invitation, words he might have been able to make out if he’d wanted to. He jerked his hands back, forcibly breaking the connection, and frowned. Matsuoka just widened his grin. “You think we need to use sight or sound as a crutch—when we’ve got _this_?” He took a step back, and Haruka felt a weight lift from his chest. “We could spend _days_ in a Conn Pod and it wouldn’t do nearly as much good to help our Drift as _this_.”

Haruka didn’t doubt him, the sense of a severed connection still lingering in the back of his mind—it was disturbing, on several levels, how comfortable the Ghost Drift could be, how easy it would be to just lose himself inside someone else’s existence, like the deepest, calmest pool he’d ever find. To drift down and down and never have to worry about being found—it was fucking terrifying, so he couldn’t give himself over entirely to the Ghost Drift, not when he wasn’t sure there’d be someone to pull him out again if he went in too deep, or didn’t want to come out—

“Haru?” Matsuoka’s voice was soft—and close. He’d done it again, given in to that _magnetism_ unconsciously, and now they were getting _looks_.

He closed his eyes and huffed a sight, tugging on the cap. They could hardly discuss anything here—so he might as well go along with…whatever it was Matsuoka was proposing. “What, then?”

Matsuoka continued to eye him warily for a few long moments—but then seemed to have decided to let it pass, for he pulled on the mask of confidence again and mounted the starting block. “You know how to relay, right?”

“Of course,” Haruka snapped, offended, and Matsuoka waved him off.

“Touchy touchy, I was just making sure.” He settled the goggles across his eyes, gaze lost behind the silvered reflection. “I’ll take the first leg, one run down and back, then you’ll take the second, then we’ll switch.”

“What does this have to do with Drifting, then?”

“Everything—because once I start my laps…you’re going to stand here—” He pointed to the starting block beneath his feet, “—and wait for me. With your eyes closed.” Haruka made a face, and Matsuoka snorted. “Didn’t I tell you? Why use sight or sound as a crutch—when we have _this_?” And he reached out again and poked Haruka in the chest, a flicker of stomach-churning anticipation vibrating through him in response to the brief brush of contact. “Don’t watch for me, don’t listen for me—just… _feel_ it.”

Feel it—he was supposed to _feel_ that moment when Matsuoka brushed the wall, to catch the echoes of victory and completion along that thin red string that connected them, like a spider alert for prey. He watched Matsuoka turn and take his starting stance—and then he blinked, and Matsuoka was gone in a flash of spray. Matsuoka was more than halfway down the lane before Haruka recovered, dragging his focus from Matsuoka’s dark form slicing through the water— _freestyle_ , and not the Butterfly he usually favored—to adjust his cap and goggles before settling into a crouch.

He felt ridiculous as he let his eyes slide shut—wondering what he must look like. Matsuoka could very well be lying, having a great laugh to himself at how gullible Haruka was when it came to their Drift, but then—wasn’t that one of the things he genuinely liked about Matsuoka? How he never _lied_ , only twisted the truth or deliberately left out important details? Besides—those moments of touch, their connection amplified a dozen-fold by the contact, had echoed nothing of subterfuge or deceit. Only pure genuine emotion that almost overwhelmed with its fervor. 

He took a deep breath—and tried to sift through the sea of identities floating about the natatorium for Matsuoka’s familiar mix of cockiness and nervous excitement, reaching out for it like waiting for a link-up before the Drift, and praying all the while that Matsuoka would be as constant and _present_ here as he was in the Conn Pod. He tried to shine brighter, a lighthouse on a foggy night, waiting for Matsuoka to find him and empathic net spread wide as a thousand emotions washed over him. He filtered them out, the bigger, clumsier ones like _self-doubt_ and _boredom_ lumbering past, ignored, leaving him to sift through the ones that required a lighter touch, a defter hand to sieve. He needed emotions that felt like his own, like _he_ was feeling them, ones that called to him—like to like—because _that_ was Matsuoka. The magnetism—

_Haru!_

His synapses fired before he knew what he was doing, muscles snapping to send him shooting off the podium and into a dive. The cool, unexpected rush of water over his face shocked him back to his senses and had him gasping, drawing water into his mouth, and he quickly scrambled back to the surface, hacking and coughing as he slammed a fist into his chest, struggling for breath. 

“What the hell—what’d you go and do that for?”

He wiped frantically at his eyes, wincing at the chlorine-saturated water that dripped into them as he tugged off his goggles, cap askew. Glancing about, he struggled to get his bearings—and realized he had been a good quarter of the way down the lane, well into his own run following the relay exchange.

The exchange. He’d done it—or, his body had reacted, at least. Matsuoka had evidently made it back to the wall, for he was out and standing at the pool’s edge now, squatting down with his head cocked to the side and a perplexed smile on his face. “Why’d you stop? We had a good thing going…” The disappointment in his tone was more playful, more childish than genuine irritation, and he extended a hand down as Haruka paddled over, allowing himself to be hauled back up onto the side. He took a few long breaths to recover, still coughing softly, and Matsuoka settled beside him, feet dangling in the water. “So it worked?”

“…You thought it wouldn’t?”

Matsuoka shrugged. “The theory was sound. But I’ve never tried it before.” He snorted wryly. “Never had this kind of connection with a partner before.” And for some reason, this caused Haruka’s ears to pink at their edges, and he glanced away. Matsuoka ignored him, though, continuing, “You’re the first person I’ve ever really Drifted with, so I guess I’m kind of on a high.”

Haruka frowned. “But—your file said you’ve had—” He cut himself off when Matsuoka waved him away.

“Does it count as Drifting when they pass out after a few minutes and you have to try and handle the neural load of a Jaeger yourself?” He offered a self-deprecating grin. “I know I’m amazing—but some things even I can’t do.”

“So humble, too,” Haruka muttered, and Matsuoka laughed so loudly they got looks from people three lanes over. He struggled to ignore their gazes, mumbling awkwardly, “Well—it’s hardly a secret that I’ve never Drifted with anyone either. It’s the blind leading the blind.”

Matsuoka’s chuckle was low and dark, now, and he leaned in uncomfortably close. “And what did I tell you? Who needs to be able to _see_ when we’ve got—” The tips of his fingers crept across the wet concrete to brush at the tips of Haruka’s, and the connection crackled to life, “— _this_?”

He didn’t move his hand immediately this time—guiltily letting himself bask in the sensation of a circuit being closed as a jolt of supplementary energy entered his system. He felt like he could complete another twenty runs without breaking a sweat, could swim from here to Guam and think nothing of it. He could handle anything—because it wasn’t a burden he would bear alone.

And this time, when Matsuoka finally drew away, he clung tight to the connection, like a lifeline, and tangled himself in the red string, desperate to keep even just an echo of that energy flow still pumping through him. It wasn’t the same—but it was better than being left out in the cold alone, and when he felt Matsuoka give an experimental tug at the other end, he responded with a frantic jerk of his own.

“Sssh—” Matsuoka hissed, hands coming up to steady Haruka at the shoulders, and he wanted to apologize—but didn’t know what to say, what to apologize _for_. “Easy…I’m not gonna take it from you… Just wanted to let you know I was there.”

Haruka swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to pull on the thread until he had it all to himself by remembering that it wasn’t the thread he wanted, but the connection, and if Matsuoka didn’t keep hold of his end, then it would lose all its luster and allure. “…What is it?”

“It’s yours,” Matsuoka responded simply. “For however long you want it.” He shifted back into a stance and extended his hand again. “Now, how about another run?”


	7. Chapter 7

The first time it happened, they were four days into their return to the Conn Pod.

Things had settled—as much as things _could_ settle inside a Shatterdome perpetually on alert for the next Breach event—into a reasonably predictable routine; Conn Pod session in the morning, break for lunch, another session in the afternoon, then dismissal, which for Haruka meant more probing questions from Makoto. Free time often translated into races against Matsuoka or—more recently—relay sessions, endless back and forth powering down the lane and connecting at that last, final moment for the exchange. As Matsuoka had promised, the relay had indeed started to help them manage their Drift more competently, and Haruka had almost stopped noticing the heavy, uneasy gazes that followed them into the Drift from the nothingness, strengthened by the connection he still felt guilty for relying upon.

He had convinced himself, though, that there was at least no danger. Matsuoka wouldn’t let him sink, would still be able to find him if he faltered and let himself get too complacent and comfortable in the Ghost Drift. Repeating that mantra helped him to be less _conscious_ of the Ghost Drift and the thread he still clung to, until there were moments throughout the day where they’d work in perfect sync without really meaning to—Matsuoka turning to pour their coffee while Haruka met him with mugs balanced in one hand and attention focused on the tablet he held in the other, or Haruka reflecting distantly during his evening soak that he wanted some dried _surumeika_ only to find a packet waiting for him on his bed, courtesy of a quick trip to the canteen by Matsuoka. 

_That_ had shaken him—initially a pleasant surprise but not without its worrisome underside, because did that mean Matsuoka was privy to all his thoughts? Hadn’t he been the one to warn Haruka against probing a Drift Partner’s mind? Was the Ghost Drift doing little more than breaking down the barriers that kept self from melding with self, until if they weren’t careful, they’d be one muddled entity spread across two bodies?

But Matsuoka had just snorted derisively from where he lay on his back on his bed, flipping through a report on his tablet, and reminded, “Geez, get a grip; it’s your own damn fault for broadcasting whatever you’re feeling loud and clear.”

“…You can read my mind?”

Matsuoka had rolled his eyes. “ _No_ , I can’t _read your mind_. This isn’t some bad scifi manga. But I’m gonna hear you whether I want to or not if you hold up a fucking bullhorn and shout at me.”

Haruka had let this sink in, wondering with a kind of childish curiosity, if this meant they were telepathic now. Could he speak to Matsuoka, if he thought about it hard enough? They shared memories in the Drift, but was this connection—whatever it was—strong enough to support active thought? To transmit more than just vague emotions and memory and _feeling_?

_Matsuoka_.

No response, so he’d tried again, concentrating harder.

_Matsuoka_.

Matsuoka had stifled a yawn and navigated back to the home screen of the tablet he held in the air above him, eyes flicking about the screen.

_Matsuoka_.

And then he was responding to a message he’d just received, fingers flying over the screen to rush out a reply to the little bubble that had just popped up, demanding attention.

Perhaps a different tack, then: _Rin_.

“Fuck— _shit_ ,” Matsuoka had squawked, rubbing the little knot forming on his forehead where he’d dropped his tablet squarely on his face, and then he’d sat upright, glaring at Haruka and shaking a finger, face flushed in humiliated shame. “That wasn’t funny, asshole.”

Haruka had just snorted softly, the only sign of his amusement, and doused the light on his side of the room before pulling the covers up around him.

Looking back now, though, Haruka would have given anything to be able to go back to a time when his worst fear was that Matsuoka would find out through idly projected thoughts where he’d hidden his premium rare copy of _Famous Japanese Hot Springs and Me Monthly_.

Instead, their efforts to improve the stability of their Drift meant they now had to deal with the _ugly_ side of the Ghost Drift—because of course there had to be a price to pay for living with one foot inside each other’s head 24-7. Delving deeply meant progress—but it also meant running the risk of going _too far_ , and now Haruka didn’t know if they’d ever find a way back.

* * *

He woke with a jolt, going from a REM cycle to conscious in the blink of an eye, and he felt adrenaline coursing through his veins, like he’d just woken from a nightmare. He blinked several times, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness—it was impossible to tell the time underground, but it _felt_ like the middle of the night. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it as he tried to make sense of why he’d woken so abruptly—but found himself distracted by soft, incoherent mumbling coming from Matsuoka’s side of the room.

He lay there staring into the dimness for several long moments, confused and lost, before it finally dawned what he was witnessing—and he lifted himself upright with no small amount of lethargy and watched, mesmerized for some reason by the sight and sound of Matsuoka caught in the throes of a nightmare. 

The wifebeater he’d pulled on had to be soaked through with sweat, and the faint glow from an emergency lamp housed in a wall sconce at the far end of the room outlined the fuzzy form of Matsuoka, back arched in a strong curve as he curled into a fetal position, face buried into his pillow to muffle his idle mutterings. His back heaved now and then with shuddering spasms—one in particular so violent that Haruka was on his feet and shuffling to his bedside before he could register what he was doing, hands hovering hesitantly over Matsuoka’s shaking form, because what could he do? Was this one of those situations where it was more dangerous to wake the victim than to just leave them be? 

“Matsuoka…?” he tried softly, clenching his hands into frustrated fists, and when this didn’t rouse him, he tried again, underscoring the name with a mental echo he hoped might break through whatever demons Matsuoka was battling in his dream.

When this too failed, though, he hissed a curse to himself and laid hands against Matsuoka’s bare skin, intending to deliver a gentle shake—but was instead rocked by a wall of emotion and sensation that slammed into him like a freight train, roiling waves of terror and panic and _fear_ swelling over him and threatening to pull him down. Gut-wrenching, sick-to-his-stomach _fright_ filled him like a choking sludge, and even the knowledge that it wasn’t his _own_ fear he was experiencing, that this was just an echo of Matsuoka’s, didn’t keep him from feeling like he was suffocating in thin air, that he couldn’t _breathe_ , that he really was going to _drown_ in the Ghost Drift, but it wouldn’t be that relieved sense of losing himself, just giving in and letting himself go gentle into that good night, it would be kicking and screaming and _fighting with all he had_ —

“ _Fuck!_ ” Two hands came up to shove him away, and Haruka was suddenly reminded that Matsuoka was _strong_ ; Haruka could probably have taken him in a Kwoon Room session, sure, but Matsuoka was not someone he wanted to meet in a dark alley unprepared. He landed on his ass on the floor and knocked his head on his bed frame, sparks flashing in his vision for a few long moments before the room brightened as Matsuoka fumbled with his bedside lamp. “Na…nase?”

He rubbed the bump forming on the back of his head, frowning up at Matsuoka in irritation. He could feel the terror dissipating now, the sense of being back in his own skin doing wonders to remind him that Matsuoka’s demons were his own, not Haruka’s to worry about beyond how they affected the Drift.

Matsuoka’s hair was in disarray and his pallor was sickly white, with dark circles under his eyes that he tried to wipe away as lingering evidence of his troubled dreams. “…Sorry,” he mumbled, half to himself, and swallowed thickly as he tossed away the covers and padded across the room. “Gonna take a leak,” he explained as he passed Haruka, and a moment later, the door to the bathroom shut and the light flickered on.

It was still on—with no sounds of life—an hour later when Haruka finally managed to drift back to sleep.

That had been several days ago.

Had the nightmares been an isolated incident, that might have been the end of things—but each relay session, each passing moment in the Drift, only strengthened the connection between them, and by the third night, Haruka was quite sure he was going mad—that _this_ must be those ‘Drifter Bends’ finally catching up with him. Matsuoka’s nightmares were swiftly becoming _his own_ , but he didn’t get the luxury of knowing what the hell it _was_ that inspired such bone-deep terror and confusion and _loss_ —no, he just had to suffer through it in blind ignorance.

The fear, he kept reminding himself, was not his own—even when nearly drowning in the inexplicable _terror_ and worry, he could tell it wasn’t that _he_ was afraid of something, but Matsuoka. This, though, did little to diminish the burden—because knowing that there was something out there, big and ominous and menacing, like whatever lurked beyond the careful path Matsuoka led him down before reaching the Drift, was terrifying in and of itself. What could frighten _him_? What did Pilots who’d faced down kaiju and lived to tell the tale have to fear…?

He wasn’t so sure he wanted to know the answer.

And so every day, he sat in Makoto’s office, muttering that everything was fine, no change, nothing to report—but he knew, deep down, that _this_ was the kind of thing he was supposed to talk about. These were the kinds of things that _Makoto his friend_ needed to know, if not Makoto the ranking Psych Analyst—but hesitation always stilled his tongue, because it wasn’t his place to say. This was _Matsuoka’s_ secret, and Haruka would have trusted him less if the guy _hadn’t_ been a little messed up by years of fighting kaiju. All of the great Pilots were, everyone said—and even Makoto probably had his fair share of nightmares about monsters under the bed, as it were, without having spent a second in the field. 

So he bore it—he lay there in his bed, back turned to block out as much of the sound as possible and jaw clenched so hard he was certain he was going to grind his teeth to dust, and let the overwhelming wave of emotion and fear wash over him, seep through his skin and permeate his bones. It was all he _could_ do, because Matsuoka never wanted to talk about it, just seemed to be growing more exhausted by the day, and while he did an excellent job of covering it up during their waking hours—Haruka himself might have been fooled, even, if he hadn’t seen the nightmares wracking Matsuoka’s body with his own two eyes—it didn’t make the nights any easier to bear.

Until the fourth night.

He’d stopped trying to fall asleep; he would only be woken violently if he did, and it was just easier to wait for exhaustion to drag him under, as at least then he might black out long enough before Matsuoka’s nightmares heaved him back to consciousness and forced the cycle to start again. He’d considered at one point finding a bunk elsewhere until…well, however long it took for Matsuoka to get his issues under control, but without knowing how far their connection stretched, the risk of Makoto or some other PPDC officer noting and making an issue of it was too great.

At least, that was what he told himself: that it was _too annoying_ , when in fact simply the feeling that he had a duty to help Matsuoka weather whatever this was by remaining nearby was much closer to the truth. It didn’t seem right, abandoning him to the darkness—not when he’d gone out of his way to help Haruka through similar and into the Drift. Wasn’t that supposed to be the point of a partner? He’d never wanted this—had just wanted to be left to his own devices and allowed his structured days of lessons and training. But he was here now—and he had a duty; even if he didn’t really like Matsuoka on a fundamental level, no one deserved this. So if he thought there was something he could do, some good his mere presence might serve, he’d offer it. 

He furrowed his brows—everything had gone quiet, like the inside of a pons unit, and he held his breath, because what did that mean? He couldn’t hear Matsuoka anymore—had he passed out? Should he call for a medic? Was this just a lull—the calm before a storm?

But then a sound cut through the darkness: the soft creak of bedsprings, and _oh_ , Matsuoka was just getting up, shuffling across the thin carpet towards the bathroom again, or perhaps to get a drink of water. Or maybe something stronger; Haruka wouldn’t blame him, was even a little tempted to join him—though it might be a better idea to use these few moments of Matsuoka awake and conscious to try and get some undisturbed sleep, unfair thought he understood it to be.

But then his mattress dipped, springs creaking, and he stiffened in place—then failed to entirely stifle a strained yelp as Matsuoka’s back settled against his own, the contact enough to send a spike of dread lancing through his skull. He bit his lip and tried to ride out the pounding waves of _wrong_ that lapped against him like a shoreline tide, clenching his jaw in a pitiful attempt to save face.

It was so much _worse_ , so much _keener_ with contact—and surely it had to be the same for Matsuoka, but after a few silent moments, the pain and fear settled to a dull, incessant throb that threatened to split his skull in two, and he released a labored breath that was just shy of a sob. He didn’t _cry_ —it just wasn’t in his nature—but apparently Matsuoka _did_ , and this was all his damn fault.

“…Sorry,” Matsuoka apologized softly, curling in on himself but being sure to keep a point of contact between them. “Just…this is how it is…”

_How it is_ ; and he sounded so forlorn, so resigned—like he’d given up, and it was so _foreign_ coming from Matsuoka. Entirely too human; he’d presented himself as this cocky thing, full of bravado and (well-placed) confidence, and Haruka had wanted to know what was behind the mask, but now that he was getting hints, it was proving a bit too unsettling. He didn’t want the Matsuoka who battled personal demons in his dreams; he wanted the one who approached every race as if his victory were a foregone conclusion. He _knew_ that Matsuoka, at least—recognized it. Was starting to miss it.

Haruka shifted to give reluctant room, and Matsuoka settled in more comfortably on the narrow mattress. The line where their backs brushed was uncomfortably warm, and he could feel each inhalation and long, dragging exhalation of Matsuoka’s, the cycle easing into a slow rhythm as he drifted back to sleep.

The nightmares didn’t stop; if anything, they came _harder_ , made more real and tangible by the Ghost Drift, but Haruka could tell, even in the limbo they occupied while unconscious, that Matsuoka was somehow…more _anchored_ this way, like he’d been given a purpose—or taken one—through their connection. He could _feel_ Matsuoka’s _intent_ —his will—struggling against the overwhelming onslaught of his self-born fear, could taste it on the wind and understood that though Matsuoka fought, it wasn’t for himself; it was for _Haruka_.

Being here, sharing this so intimately with Haruka now, seemed to inspire some sort of protective instinct in Matsuoka, and while the nightmares were not tempered, the new purpose that Matsuoka clearly felt manifested in a comforting cocoon of their red string. He could focus on sparing Haruka from the brunt of whatever plagued him in his dreams and in turn enjoy blessed distraction. 

There were wild moments too, where Haruka wanted to invite him inside, wanted to pool out his own thread and wrap Matsuoka in a thousand miles of spider-silk that the nightmares couldn’t penetrate, and Haruka wondered distantly if those were really _his_ emotions and urges…or if it was just the Ghost Drift talking, Matsuoka’s own protective desires mirrored across their connection and inspiring Haruka to take similar measures. 

Bundled up safe, he could hear himself in the waking world, muttering words beneath his breath in a language he didn’t understand; he listened closely, straining to make out the words—it sounded like he should be able to, the cadence familiar, but he just couldn’t put them in the right order—but Matsuoka just dug in more fiercely, shaking his head and mouthing a silent _No_. No, this wasn’t a place he was meant to be; no, this wasn’t a burden he was meant to bear.

Which was ridiculous, because if not Haruka, then _who_? Who was supposed to lie here, back against Matsuoka’s, functioning as his anchor in the hell he had been consigned to in the deep of the night? Wasn’t it only fair? He’d helped Haruka through the Drift, and if this was the least he could do in return, Haruka would gladly pay that price. He would rather be here, in the nightmare with Matsuoka than stuck spending another night having to watch it all unfurl, helpless to do more than sit there and wait and hope that maybe the next night, or the night after that, it would end.

“I’m sorry…” Matsuoka apologized again, voice thick with emotion, and Haruka huffed in irritation, twisting around in place and shifting close, chest to back, increasing the points of contact in the hope that he might be able to bear more of the burden.

“Don’t be…” he muttered in resignation, voice muffled where he pressed his forehead against the nape of Matsuoka’s neck. If Matsuoka could give himself a purpose to distract from the fear and sense of inferiority and inadequacy, then so could Haruka; he could help shoulder this burden with him. 

It was a Drift all its own—two Partners sharing a pain too great for one to handle alone.

* * *

“So…still no change, then?”

Makoto’s gaze was heavy and uncomfortable—but this was hardly new. “If it’s only changes in the Drift you’re worried about, perhaps our time would be better spent with me just filing a memo when and if I notice any issues?” 

A faint smile flickered at the edges of Makoto’s lips, and he began to scribble in his notepad. “…I see some of Matsuoka’s personality is starting to bleed into your own. Interesting.”

Haruka wanted to bite his tongue—then realized that was also probably Matsuoka’s influence. There had been a time when he might have shrugged off such comments; instead, he now leapt to greet them with a sniping retort. He didn’t like that it felt like he was losing himself, but Makoto’s knowing chuckle reassured, “It sounds good on you; I think it’s a positive change.”

He made a face, but held off responding; he could curb the urge if he focused, and he refused to let Matsuoka invade his life any further. 

“How are you feeling about the upcoming open-water session?”

Haruka shrugged. “Whatever.” There, that felt better. 

They’d been training in Omega Free’s prototype Conn Pod for the past few days now, settling into its maneuvering that was worlds away from the Jaeger simulators recruits trained in at the Academy, but Ryuugazaki had praised them profusely following their afternoon session earlier, tripping over himself to remind them how “beautiful” they would look driving the Jaeger around Tokyo Bay. 

He could still feel echoes of Matsuoka’s exhaustion—even outside of the Drift, even with several walls of concrete and steel pylons between them—but it was more being _aware_ of it than feeling it sapping his own strength, and he at least had managed to snatch enough sleep to remain standing. It didn’t stop him from feeling a little guilty, though, that Matsuoka hadn’t been able to do the same.

Their Drift hadn’t seemed to suffer from the long nights they kept—but their relationship itself had. Matsuoka had been…more distant, no longer bodily dragging Haruka off to the natatorium after their pod sessions but instead waiting for Haruka to take the lead and following reluctantly at his heels. In the water, he was freer—which was a relief Haruka refused to admit to—but the smiles were more forced, tinged with exhaustion and defeat, and Haruka was at his wits’ end, with no idea how to restore the balance.

He glanced up—sensing Makoto’s gaze on him again. “…What?”

Makoto’s head cocked slightly to the side, but he kept his features even, giving nothing away. “…How are the natatorium sessions with Matsuoka going?”

Haruka stiffened, resolutely not meeting Makoto’s gaze; he hadn’t been keeping it a secret, the time he spent with Matsuoka in their off hours, but…he hadn’t brought it up, either, and had never intended to. After all, if it wasn’t _negatively_ influencing the Drift, what need was there?

“Haru…?” Makoto tried again, a note of concern entering his voice, and he chased it with a comforting chuckle. “It’s just a question.”

Which was true—and maybe the nights were starting to get to Haruka. He wondered if asking the Shatterdome pharmacist for a sleep aid would raise any red flags. “…Fine, I guess.”

Makoto didn’t smile on the outside—but that didn’t still Haruka from sensing it practically radiating off of him. “No change…?” He cut Makoto a glare in response, and this elicited some genuine laughter as Makoto nodded. “All right, all right. Though, if it makes you feel any better—I approve, and so does the Marshal.” Haruka wanted to curse; of _course_ the Marshal had been notified. “Anything for the betterment of the Drift, after all. As long as you’re getting along with Matsuoka—“

“I’m _not_ ,” he cut in, frustration rising, and now even _he_ could hear Matsuoka’s influence on him.

“—then all’s well,” Makoto finished, and snapped his binder shut, replacing the pen in his vest pocket. “You’re dismissed, Fightmaster.”

* * *

Matsuoka was there waiting when he stepped out, napping against the wall, and only snapped back to consciousness when Haruka laid a hand hesitantly on his shoulder. “Oh—you’re finished?”

He nipped back the _obviously_ that wanted to fly free and instead just jerked his head down the corridor leading back to the main stairwell. Matsuoka fell into step beside him for a few paces before lagging behind, and while he knew it wasn’t polite, Haruka couldn’t help reaching out for a taste of what Matsuoka was feeling—

—and was met with a wall. 

Not one of the primitive, hastily erected mental blocks he’d once tried (unsuccessfully) to teach Makoto to build—but a _wall_ , thick and foreboding and impenetrable like the shell Matsuoka hid himself behind in the Drift. This was no amateur attempt; nothing was getting in—and nothing was coming out, and maybe if he’d extended a hand, initiated touch, the connection would be strong enough to break through, but if Matsuoka had this wall up…then he was clearly indicating that he didn’t want to be read just now.

Haruka stopped, shifting in place to regard Matsuoka, and frowned when he refused to meet his eyes, gaze shunted off to the side with a guilty air. As if he had _shit_ to feel guilty for—people could hardly control their dreams, and while there was clearly something different about Matsuoka (or Haruka, or them both _together_ ) that had brought about the Ghost Drift in the first place, it wasn’t something he deserved to be _blamed_ for. It was just…how things were.

_“Just…this is how it is…”_

Haruka squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. “…The natatorium’s closed this evening.”

Matsuoka’s head snapped up, innocent confusion spreading over his features. “…Huh?”

Haruka feigned interest in a patch of peeling paint on the handrail running along the wall of the stairwell. “They’re charging the capacitors for the Jaeger generators tonight; there’s a Shatterdome-wide blackout in effect for all non-essential areas.” He waited for understanding to hit—which it shortly did, in the form of a frown.

Matsuoka could be so confusing at times. Where “at times” was “most of the time”. He seemed ashamed of his nightmares—or more aptly, ashamed of the fact that Haruka was catching much of the blowback from them—and yet never went out of his way to put any distance between the two of them. Haruka could understand—if not entirely approve of—the need for tactile comfort and an anchor in the dead of night, because it helped _him_ cope as well, but he was behaving as if the pool closure was Haruka’s own doing. As _if_ he’d ever be responsible for missing an evening dip.

He huffed an irritated grunt and stalked forward, not pausing to wait and see if Matsuoka would follow. He was already being denied one evening tradition; he wouldn’t be denied another.

“Wai—where are you going now?” Matsuoka called impatiently, trailing behind as Haruka descended into the bowels of the Shatterdome. “There’s a blackout tonight, right?”

“Commissary,” Haruka responded, rolling his eyes at the confused _Huh?_ that followed, and he twisted on his heel to face Matsuoka—who narrowly avoided colliding with Haruka as he jogged to catch up. “It’s either dinner, or turning in early.” He fought the urge to raise a brow in challenge, but Matsuoka still responded with a chagrined glance to the side. Maybe this went both ways, with Matsuoka taking on bleed-over from Haruka’s personality as well. Fair was fair, after all. “…It’s settled, then.”

He set off again, and Matsuoka hurried to fall into pace next to him, irritation in his voice—but the familiar sort, born of a resignation to Haruka’s quirks. “Will you at least tell me what we’re going to the Commissary _for_?”

“Candles. Matches.” He paused, considering, then decided to be selfish: “Mackerel.”

“ _Mackerel?_ ”

“It’s Friday.”

“And what does _that_ have to do with anything?”

“So annoying…” he muttered, but Matsuoka clearly caught it, given the indignant squawk he gave, and Haruka couldn’t help allowing a tiny, amused smile; it was better this way— _Matsuoka_ was better this way, for all the irritation he caused. It wasn’t like him, sticking to the shadows and being quiet and distant; he was meant to be forever seeking the spotlight and pushing Haruka to do the same, despite fervent protests. 

The Commissary was dimly lit—but still open, apparently having been deemed an essential area, and while most stairwells were lit only by emergency lights this close to the blackout, it was still enough to see and browse by. He shoved a basket into Matsuoka’s arms and filled it with a shaker of salt and bottle of cooking oil; the little camp stove he had would have to do for the evening’s meal, but he doubted Matsuoka would complain. Not too loudly, at least.

The shelves of candles were nearly empty, the only ones left little twelve-packs of scented votives. When he added a box of sakura-scented ones to the basket, Matsuoka raised a brow and leered, “Romantic, right?” Haruka ignored him and added two boxes of matches.

True to form, Matsuoka put up a fight when Haruka added several mackerel fillets to the basket, gazing longingly at the empty shelves that had once been the beef area. “…We’re definitely having steak next week.”

“You don’t have to eat at all if you don’t want it.”

“I never said that!” Matsuoka protested, hugging the basket close. “I’m just saying—you strike me as the kind of guy who finds something he likes and then never deviates from it!”

“Why would I eat anything other than what I like?”

Matsuoka muttered something under his breath that Haruka couldn’t catch, then waved him off. “Whatever, let’s get out of here…” Haruka took careful note that the way to get Matsuoka to prove more tractable was simply to wear him out with confusion.

They wound up having to light one of the votives just to get over the threshold by the time they made it back to the room, nearly tripping over themselves as they struggled to balance the bags laden with food and necessities while they removed their boots. Directing Matsuoka to arrange the candles more evenly about the main room—with a few in the bathroom as well—Haruka busied himself with setting up the camp stove, lighting the propane before he was ready to start cooking in an effort to give even more light. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

Matsuoka settled at the little dining table when he’d finished, elbows propped up and chin in his hands as he watched Haruka slice into the packaging, carefully arranging fillets in the small skillet to grill over the flame. It wasn’t an uncomfortable, heavy gaze like Makoto’s earlier, probing and searching, but one that simply settled easily over his shoulders, like a warm towel after a brisk morning dip. 

Which reminded him—he needed to be quick about calling first bath this evening. He’d want some time to soak, and maybe if he tried to get some sleep while Matsuoka was still showering, he’d at least have a little time to rest comfortably before he was jerked into Matsuoka’s nightmares—

An uneasy wave of dread roiled over him, like a thick, heavy fog rolling in on the evening tide, and he shuddered, glancing over at the table to see that Matsuoka had drifted off. Straining to force his legs to move despite the panic that wanted to freeze him in place, he stalked over to the table and laid a hand gently on Matsuoka’s shoulders, giving a shake. “Oi, Matsuoka.”

He immediately snapped back awake at the contact, hand coming up to cover Haruka’s at his shoulder—“Ha…ru?”

Haruka frowned, drawing his hand back and making a fist as he shuffled back to the little camp stove, tending the mackerel fillets crackling merrily in the pan. Allowing Matsuoka a moment to collect himself, he swallowed thickly and reminded, “…We’re going to have to discuss this at some point, you realize.”

He could feel the unease radiating from Matsuoka, viscous and unfamiliar. Matsuoka clearly didn’t want to talk about the nightmares—but it didn’t seem a hesitation born of shame so much as worry, which was ridiculous. He was hardly the first soldier to have nightmares, and at worst, Makoto might prescribe him a tranquilizer or something to help him sleep too deeply to dream. It was a wonder he hadn’t already _asked_ for one.

“I know…” Matsuoka finally allowed, and Haruka glanced over to see him running a finger lightly over one of the votive flames, just quickly enough to avoid being burned. “Just…” He clenched his jaw, staring into the flame intently. “…Not yet. Give me more time. Please.”

Which meant _Don’t tell Tachibana yet_ , and did Haruka really have a choice? He wanted to ask what the time was supposed to be _for_ —was Matsuoka getting a handle on the dreams?—but what came out instead was, “…Does sleeping with me help at all?”

Matsuoka’s gaze snapped over to meet his, cheeks flushing so brightly they seemed to glow in the flickering candlelight, and he opened and closed his mouth a few times before managing, “I—well, it doesn’t _hurt_ , so I figured…” Matsuoka seemed too thrown by the question to call Haruka on why he had even asked it in the first place—which was a good thing, because Haruka didn’t have a response ready for that.

_Because we’re partners_ didn’t seem sufficient, and while plenty of Rangers shared quarters with their Drift Partners, he doubted few—if any—shared a bed. Not that they were supposed to be either, but if it helped…well, it was mutually beneficial in this case. Touch anchored Matsuoka, and Matsuoka anchored Haruka. It would continue for as long as necessary, and then it would stop. 

The fish crisped quickly, and Haruka cut the flame and grabbed a spatula to prepare two plates. It was a meager meal, without rice or miso to complement the mackerel, but it would have to be enough for tonight (and he knew Matsuoka had smuggled in some beef jerky that he liked to think he’d kept secret, so there was no risk of starvation at least). 

They ate in silence, as usual, and Haruka was reminded once again how different interacting with Matsuoka was from Makoto. Makoto usually liked to fill the silences during meals they shared with small talk about the day’s events, peppering Haruka with questions about his Kwoon Room sessions and how promising (or otherwise) the new crop of recruits was—but for all Matsuoka liked to run his mouth during their time outside the room, in moments like these, he was always so quiet. Like the face he showed others was the mask and that he showed Haruka his true self: weary, defeated, broken, but with a burning desire to live banked beneath the thick walls he put up, made manifest in the bouts of banter he engaged Haruka in. 

“…Why do you pilot Jaegers?”

It took Haruka a moment to realize that he had even asked the question, only noticing he’d spoken when Matsuoka paused in mid-bite, chopsticks halfway to his mouth before the chunk of mackerel he’d picked off dropped back to the plate. “…What?”

Haruka glanced down at his own plate, feigning interest in cutting his last bite into several tinier portions, and he shrugged. “…I think you heard me. It’s a simple question.” Except it wasn’t—every pilot had a different reason, though most would have boasted it was _to protect humanity_. Everyone wanted to believe he was a hero, charging into the fray to save the world, but Matsuoka had been the one to remind Haruka of what he already knew: that people lied, not always maliciously, but that it was still being disingenuous all the same.

Matsuoka carefully set his chopsticks down across the lip of his plate and reached for his glass of water—but didn’t bring it to his lips, instead drawing symbols Haruka didn’t recognize in the thin film of condensation. “Because I was made for it,” he responded cryptically, and Haruka thought he caught a the dim glow of something burning behind Matsuoka’s eyes, but then he blinked and it was gone as Matsuoka leaned forward and propped his elbows up on the table again, chin in his hands, and stared openly at Haruka. “…What about you?”

He recalled here their very first conversation—and Matsuoka’s odd request that Haruka pilot for him. With a thin frown, he reminded, “…I’ve never piloted before now, and I wasn’t exactly given a choice in the matter.”

“Maybe,” Matsuoka allowed, then raised his brows in challenge. “But you joined the PPDC for a reason, right? Something made you enlist. Something made you want to climb into a Conn Pod—before you learned none of the others were fit to be your partner.” He liked how Matsuoka made it seem like it hadn’t been _him_ that failed, but all the other recruits. These kinds of lies were a guilty pleasure.

He licked his lips and kept his gaze on the fine wood grain of the table; it would be easy enough, explaining. But easier still _not_ having to explain, and if the Ghost Drift was going to cause so much pain, they might as well use it for all the _good_ it could do as well. He lifted one hand to reach out—then paused, hesitating with it hanging in the air, before barreling through and grabbing Matsuoka’s nearest hand by the wrist, relaxing his grip to let their palms slide together. The rush of relief was like settling into a hot spring after a cool bath, and he bit back a whimpering sigh as he felt the connection slide into place. He let the sensation settle, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He was standing on a hillside—even twenty years later, when he could barely remember what the house he’d been living in at the time looked like or the name of his homeroom teacher that year, he could still remember dozens of tiny details about this hillside, about this moment. He could remember that there was a sheen of dew on the grass, because he could feel it, barefoot as he’d been, and he could remember the fishy smell drifting up from the harbor—or at least, what was left of the harbor. He could remember Makoto’s fingers tight around his wrist and fingernails digging into the soft flesh, leaving desperate little half-moons behind to impress upon Haruka all of the pain and fear and sense of being overwhelmed by how _big_ and _wild_ the world was proving to be.

But what he remembered most keenly, more so than any of that, was the sight of the long procession of solemn figures in white, mourning the souls lost to a kaiju’s rampage. They weren’t the target—why would monsters from another world go out of their way to attack a tiny fishing village of maybe a few hundred souls?—just collateral damage. But the devastation was just the same, and the lives lost just as precious. They were human— _nothing_ without their suits of armor, and they’d just been harshly reminded of this fact. 

The emotions had been a muddled soup of _sad_ —fear, anger, confusion, frustration. All the dark thoughts humans usually kept buried deep inside, bubbling up now after being unearthed by tragedy, and they’d flowed through Haruka like a foul wind, bits and pieces taking root and making him question the unfairness of it all. Why _them_? Why _Iwatobi_? Why the _kaiju_? What was the point of fighting, if all they won were these meaningless Pyrrhic victories? 

At his other side, mirroring Makoto’s childish grip on his arm, a grown Matsuoka placed a hand on his shoulder and surveyed the devastation, the long march of white reflecting clearly in his eyes. He wondered if Matsuoka was drowning in the slurry of emotions too, here in Haruka’s memory. “…This is why you wanted to be a pilot?”

“…Makoto wanted to; I just followed him.” His voice sounded softer, lighter—the smooth tones of prepubescence.

Matsuoka’s gaze hardened. “…So you pilot for him?”

He turned to stare up at Matsuoka; there it was again, that strain of unfounded jealousy that made Matsuoka seem younger, more immature than his twenty-odd years. “I told you before. I don’t pilot for anyone. It’s for the good of—” But Matsuoka cut him a sharp glance, and he swallowed his words. “…Well, you promised.” When Matsuoka’s brows knit in confusion, he turned to stare back down at the procession, pitching his voice softer. “That you’d show me a sight I’d never seen before.”

It was so much easier here in the Ghost Drift; he never needed to explain himself, just let the memories flow, and Matsuoka could experience them as real, as his own. For every shared nightmare that tore away bits of their humanity, there was a shared memory of tragedy that reminded them keenly that they _were_ human. Pilots didn’t climb into the machines to save humanity as a whole, but the _concept_ of being human, because only when they surrendered to the monsters and invaders would they have truly lost the war. 

He reached out, tiny fingers of a child wrapping around one of Matsuoka’s own—and Matsuoka curled them against his palm in a fist. “…Thank you. For sharing this.”

Haruka shrugged, tugging on his other arm to draw Makoto closer—it was ridiculous, feeling like he had to comfort a shade in a memory, but he couldn’t help it. “You asked.”

“Yeah…” Matsuoka allowed, and his voice carried an edge of regret, like he wished he hadn’t. “I guess I did ask for it.” Bells tolled in the distance, and the soft wailing of mourning grew louder.


	8. Chapter 8

“…If you don’t turn that fucking thing off, I’m gonna throw it into the Breach…”

The words were mumbled into the back of Haruka’s neck, heavy with exhaustion, but he complied—too drunk on sleep to offer any retort—by groping about on his bedside table for his comm tablet to deactivate the alarm that was blaring piercingly. The windowless room was still dark, even though the sun had probably been up for hours, and the glare from the tablet forced him to squint as he strained to make out the message on the screen, trying to recall how he was supposed to dismiss the alarm.

He eventually swiped a finger over a promising ‘x’, and the alarm died away. Huffing a sigh of relief, he collapsed back onto the mattress, rubbing at his eyes blearily as Matsuoka groaned in irritation, “No kaiju attack has ever occurred before noon. So I don’t understand why _we_ have to be up at the ass-crack of dawn if the Precursors are happy to hold off destroying the world until after lunch.”

“It’s well after dawn.”

“Semantics,” Matsuoka grumbled, burrowing under the covers and trying to wrap himself bodily around Haruka—but they had to be dressed and ready to suit up in the Drivesuit Room at 0900, so they could hardly afford to laze about like this. He stood abruptly and jerked the coverlet off the bed, gloating silently over Matsuoka’s offended squawk. “Dammit, Nanase, c’mon…” Haruka bent at the waist, rifling through the drawer under his bed for a change of clothes—but stilled at Matsuoka’s soft, “…It’s better now, huh.”

Better. He didn’t need to ask what Matsuoka was talking about—and this time, it wasn’t because of the Ghost Drift. He tugged out a clean pair of boxers and a tank, muttering absently, “I guess.”

The bedsprings creaked as Matsuoka shifted up onto his elbows on his stomach to peer down. “You _guess_ ,” he repeated with a dry chuckle laced in his tone. “Don’t go all sentimental on me now.”

He stood up again, and now Matsuoka had to crane his neck to meet his eyes. “What do you want me to say?”

Matsuoka just shrugged, rolling over to place his back to Haruka, and waved him off as he burrowed into his pillow. “That you’ll wake me when you get out of the bath.” Which, of course he would—not because he cared, but because it would reflect badly on him if he showed up in the Drivesuit Room _sans_ partner.

Matsuoka hadn’t been incorrect, though; it _was_ better. The nightmares.

Their open-water run had been postponed a week when a sizable contingent of personnel had been dispatched to Guam to run support for a pop-up facility erected to counter an inbound Category 3, which had left them with a week of nights to get through, to learn to _cope_ with whatever it meant when Matsuoka sadly reminded _This is how it is._

And somehow, they _had_. The fear felt like it had tapered off into a dull background sense of lingering _dread_ rather than the piercing adrenaline spike that struck each time Haruka drifted into unconsciousness, and while he couldn’t be sure, echoes from Matsuoka suggested the same. He’d closed the distance he’d let open between himself and Haruka, once more far too clingy for Haruka’s comfort and invading his personal space at every opportunity, and despite the exhaustion of too little undisturbed sleep that they could never quite shake, they were neither of them dead on their feet any longer.

They were _managing_ —between sharing Haruka’s bed (always Haruka’s, never Matsuoka’s, because Haruka would walk on water before he crossed the room of his own volition) and using whatever it was that the Ghost Drift _did_ to try and block out the waves of fear and panic and hunger and desperation that came with being a part of Matsuoka…they were managing.

Even Makoto had remarked cheerily that Haruka had gotten a bit of his color back. “You finally look human again,” he’d laughed, and Haruka had wondered silently what he’d looked like before. When he’d brought it up with Matsuoka later in the locker room, he’d just snorted and slapped him on the back as he brushed past, “Should’ve told him the truth—that I’ve been keeping you up all night.” Haruka had beaten him soundly in three out of five heats for that comment.

But the lewd remarks and supportive comments did nothing to change the fact that it really _was_ better. Or maybe he’d just grown used to it, learning to cope with the constant dark miasma of fear that met him when he closed his eyes just as he’d learned to cope with the waves of emotions he had to surmount every time he stepped out the door. If Matsuoka could live with this, then so could he. So could _they_.

Matsuoka had tried to explain it—in his own way, which meant avoiding explaining much of anything at all. He clearly didn’t like discussing the darker side of the Drift or its consequences, but a guilty conscience must have reminded him that he owed Haruka this much at least.

He hadn’t mentioned where the fear came from—or at least, not what fed it. It clearly came from Matsuoka himself, with Haruka subjected to its echoes across the Ghost Drift, and while Matsuoka seemed capable of keeping the fear tucked away in the light of day, when night fell and he drifted into unconsciousness, the barriers dropped away, and Haruka was exposed full-force. Haruka shared a small corner of Matsuoka’s mind now, and that meant dealing with Matsuoka’s personal demons as well.

They were managing, though. Sharing the Drift, magnified through touch, let them bear the fear together, let Matsuoka anchor himself through Haruka’s presence and, in turn, granted them both blessed distraction, like being able to ignore a gushing wound because someone was there with you to settle your nerves and speak of happier things.

The faucet handle creaked as Haruka twisted the shower off, and he stepped out of the bathroom, towel draped over his shoulder and water dripping from his hair, and kicked the foot that peeked out from under the coverlet. “Oi, get up. The bath’s free.”

Matsuoka rolled onto his back and stretched languidly, rubbing at his eyes. “Make me some breakfast while I shower?”

“Make your own; if you wanted breakfast, you should have gotten up earlier.”

“Hey, I make _you_ breakfast all the time!” He shifted upright in bed, legs falling open. “See if I ever do anything nice for _you_ again…”

Haruka ignored his whining and shuffled over to the small closet on his side of the room, pulling out a pair of pants and slipping them on over his boxers. Behind him, he heard the mattress springs creak as Matsuoka finally extricated himself from the bed and hobbled into the bathroom, the door shutting behind him and latching closed.

He breathed a soft sigh of relief; they could do this. If they could learn to relay without sight, make the exchange without sound, conquer fear made manifest in their worst nightmares—then surely they could manage to not screw up their first real Drift behind a Jaeger. It would be just like the simulation sessions—Makoto would be there too, watching the readouts for any sign of everything going to shit like it had those first few attempts, but these days the waters were smooth in the Drift, and Haruka had learned what was and wasn’t okay. He trusted Matsuoka—to a degree he was sure was not a good idea, but he couldn’t help it, because he just got _that feeling_. That he _ought_ to—and that, he supposed, was the Drift speaking. He knew Matsuoka wasn’t planning anything nefarious because, well, _he would know_ otherwise.

The toaster dinged its completion, and Haruka settled at the table with a meager Western breakfast that would certainly not tide him over until lunch—but it was probably best he not attempt to Drift on a full stomach for their first open-water test anyway. He held his toast in one hand and flicked through new messages on his tablet with the other until Matsuoka joined him, hair dark and limp with water and a towel around his neck as he shuffled into the kitchen looking only marginally more awake than he had before his shower.

Haruka waved absently at the toaster, and Matsuoka peeked inside to see another two slices of toast waiting for him. “…You made me breakfast.”

“I made _myself_ breakfast. Decided I didn’t want the extra slices. No sense in letting them go to waste.” He pushed his chair out and ran the faucet to wash the rest of his tea down the drain, setting his plate in to soak. “If you don’t want it, you can—”

He cut off speaking when Matsuoka bumped his shoulder against Haruka’s, using the excuse of reaching for a cup from the cupboard to sneak some contact— _playfulness, excitement, a thin slip of anxiety and worry, but tempered by a sense of comfort and relaxation_ —and Haruka stepped away to restore the space between them. Emotions like that…could be dangerous. He could feel Matsuoka watching him as he headed back into the bedroom to finish dressing. “Thank you, Haru~”

Haruka froze, an annoyed shudder rippling down his spine, and then continued a stiff march into the bedroom with fists clenched at his sides. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Haruka tugged at the neck of the thick bodysuit for the tenth time in as many minutes, irritation flaring at being kept waiting. He and Matsuoka had been standing here, waiting for the technicians to finish their final check of Omega Free’s Conn-Pod, for almost a half hour now—and these Drivesuits were far from comfortable. The pons unit sessions had been claustrophobia-inducing, but at least he’d been able to strip down to little more than a pair of jammers. Now he was properly suited up for piloting a Jaeger and trying to figure out how he was expected to breathe under so many layers of synthetic material and plastic and metal encasements.

Matsuoka snickered next to him. “Nervous?”

“Hardly,” he muttered, which wasn’t a lie—though he suspected it was only annoyance with the Drivesuit that was distracting him from the pressure of the upcoming run. “It’s not like we’re actually going to be sent into the field.”

Matsuoka shrugged. “Sure, but you’re still going to be piloting a couple-thousand-ton war machine—most guys in your place would be shaking in their boots right now.” He could feel Matsuoka cut him a sly glance. “…But I guess you aren’t like most guys.”

Haruka kept his gaze fixed on the far side of the Jaeger Bay, vision blurring as he tried to separate himself from the here and now. “You would know.”

“Yeah…” Matsuoka allowed, and Haruka felt him turn his own gaze forward, leaving Haruka in peace. “I would, wouldn’t I?” And this made Haruka cock his head to take in Matsuoka out of the corner of his eye, reaching out gently for some snippet of emotion, just to be sure—the playfulness and relaxed comfort from earlier in their quarters was still there, to some extent, but it felt thin and painted on now, like Matsuoka had worn it in a pathetic attempt to convince Haruka he was perfectly at ease. The anxiety and worry were almost palpable beneath the mask Matsuoka projected, and Haruka wondered distantly when the last time he’d piloted had been.

He shifted to the side, pretending to twist around to check up on the progress of the final check, and let his dangling fingers brush against Matsuoka’s own tight fist, closing the circuit and setting a tangible wave of relief washing over them. Matsuoka almost groaned audibly, muttering pathetically, “…You didn’t have to do that.”

“Now who’s the one who’s nervous?”

Matsuoka unclenched his fist, letting his fingers twine lightly between Haruka’s own, palms barely brushing. “I’m not nervous. Not about piloting, at least.” Haruka’s brow twitched, and Matsuoka correctly interpreted this as a sign that he thought Matsuoka was full of shit—for he laughed. “I’m _serious_. It’s not that big a deal, really; not after you’ve done it a few times.” He waved with his free hand at the daunting hull of Omega Free, strapped to the deck of the docked escort carrier that would take them out into waters deep enough to launch in. “Sure, it might not _look_ like a proper Jaeger. But it can’t be all that hard to pilot. Like…sitting behind the helm of a huge sub.”

Haruka raised a brow. “And you’ve piloted a submarine before…?”

“Well—” Matsuoka hedged, “no, but—I figure it can’t be _that_ difficult, right?”

Not exactly the response he’d been looking for, but he let Matsuoka have his moment, instead shifting the topic. “…What is it, then?”

Matsuoka’s expression reflected genuine confusion. “What’s what?”

Haruka swallowed, glancing away. “What…are you nervous about, then? If not piloting…” The emotions Matsuoka was harboring felt too close to the terror of their nights together for Haruka’s comfort, despite Matsuoka’s obvious efforts to disguise the feelings. He had to know there was no sense in trying to hide anything from a Drift partner—let alone an empath, so why did he insist on trying to shield Haruka from the truth? The unease Matsuoka experienced from feeling like he _had_ to hide things from Haruka echoed over the Ghost Drift, setting Haruka on edge as well, and they needed all of their focus today.

Matsuoka eyed him for a long moment, opening his mouth to speak—before thinking better of it and closing it again as he drew his hand away. The sense of loss as their connection was severed grated more than Haruka wanted to admit. “C’mon; a proper pilot always does the final check himself. It’s time you learned what it means to be a Ranger.”

* * *

“Emergency lighting functioning…oxygen levels green…comms—”

_”Pilots—report status.”_

Matsuoka grimaced, muttering to himself, “…online, apparently.” He then raised his voice and responded, “Matsuoka Rin, go for drop, Marshal.”

“Nanase Haruka, go for drop,” Haruka repeated, monotone and distant. They’d done this a dozen times now, and the blush had worn off—the only difference today was that once the neural handshake was initiated, they wouldn’t just be operating a pair of disembodied hydraulic arms or trying to shakily steer the bottom half of an old Jaeger harvested for parts down a straight line from the safety of the Jaeger bay—they’d be on their own in open water, tasked with putting a prototype Jaeger through its paces. If they screwed this up, it could affect years of research in the future. But if they did this _right_ , they could turn the tide of war.

A voice crackled over their comms— _“Initiating pilot-to-pilot protocol.”_ —and Haruka clenched his fists inside the gloves that transmitted the movement of his hands, suddenly antsy for touch, _contact_. It was ridiculous—touch only amplified what already existed, and the Ghost Drift was still there, perfectly intact, but… He didn’t want to be stepping into the Drift alone today, wanted some kind of tangible link to Matsuoka, some kind of assurance he would find Haruka before—

 _“Is there a problem, Nanase?”_ The Marshal’s tone said there had better _not_ be a problem, not 30 seconds away from the Handshake, and he glanced up, suddenly conscious that he was having a mild panic attack and it was probably showing in living color on his readouts. _”Report, Fightmaster. Is there a_ problem _?”_

His eyes flicked over to the camera fixed to the Pod’s hull, then away again, all around the capsule, before he closed them and forced his breathing to even out. “No, sir. Go for drop.”

He felt Matsuoka probing feebly at the edges of his consciousness, like he was trying to force their red thread through the eye of a needle far too small to accept it, but Haruka appreciated the effort all the same, and shook his head, reminding aloud, “…Sorry. I’m fine.” He didn’t need Matsuoka radiating waves of worry and concern on top of the humiliation of not being able to cope in the field before the Handshake had even been initiated.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself he would meet Matsuoka in the Drift, a joining more intimate than brushes of fingers or slaps across the back, and everything would be fine then, they’d be one—the circuit would be complete, and then he could start _enjoying_ this for what it was: all of the thrills of piloting with none of the danger or pressure.

 _”Prepare for neural handshake,”_ an NBO announced, beginning the countdown from ten. Haruka closed his eyes and waited for the sync to carry him over the threshold—

Laughter in his mind—it felt like his own, but he knew it wasn’t, because it was familiar in a different way. “Really, Nanase? Can’t live without me in your head for five minutes?” Matsuoka’s tone was light and teasing, because he knew that was what Haruka craved right now: something familiar and comforting, something he _knew_ and could cling to as they stepped into virgin territory.

“Shut up,” Haruka sniped reflexively as he felt the Drift settle into place, eyes snapping open again and seeing the inside of the Conn Pod in a new light—not a coffin, but the brain of their Jaeger. Where they _belonged_ , where they were masters. They dominated here, had been _born_ for this, worked in perfect synchronicity—and _fuck_ , was this what it was like for Matsuoka, piloting? This sense of finality and completion, like he’d finally _arrived_? It felt so foreign—but with each passing heartbeat, the sensation seeped into his bones and became as much his own as Matsuoka’s, like Matsuoka was feeding him a lifeline of confidence that took root and blossomed into a drive all his own.

This was _more_ than the shaky steps they'd taken in the Drivesuit Room before, motor skills finer than the old, rusty hydraulic arms they'd trained on. He felt powerful, confident—felt like _Matsuoka_ always felt, but mirrored. His fears and worries from before the Handshake seemed so far away now, so _petty_ , and yet he still understood on some deeper level how very real they had been. It made him want to stay in the Drift forever—like floating soundlessly at the bottom of a pool, coccooned away, _safe_.

He huffed to himself, dispelling the thought, and reached his arms forward in an awkward outsweep, swiping at the wall of water he could see through the HUD inside his helmet, and could detect Matsuoka doing the same out of the corner of his eye. “Left hemisphere—calibrated.”

Matsuoka stretched a hand out, flexing his fingers to assess the range of motion, and Haruka complied thoughtlessly with the urge to do the same, marveling still at how the Drift worked. It wasn’t just an involuntary response, but a _conscious action_. He wanted to reach forward, on some level, and so he did—all the while conscious of the fact that it was Matsuoka driving the action. “Right hemisphere—calibrated,” Matsuoka repeated, glancing over at Haruka and flipping him a rude gesture, grinning when Haruka was forced to reflect it himself. “C’mon, relax—it’s just a test run. No one’s expecting us to defend the eastern coast or something.”

Something shuddered in Haruka's chest—guilt and shame. It was one of the worst things about the Drift; all of his weaknesses and uncertainties were exposed, and Matsuoka was the _last_ person he wanted to appear weak before—

But then a flash in his mind—a memory, not brought up of his own volition but thrust upon his mind by Matsuoka—showed them huddled against each other, limbs entwined and expressions set in pained grimaces, and _oh_. Oh, right. Matsuoka knew all about the humiliation of showing your weak side to someone whose respect you craved; they _both_ knew now, so what was the point in trying to hide anything, when they knew each other stem to stern?

He felt the urge to rebel fade, felt his fire being banked, and a wave of reassurance washed over him through the Drift, soothing the burn of shame. His fingers twitched again, anxious for touch, and Matsuoka’s own mirrored the motion, bringing a sad, knowing smile to his lips that inspired a whole new brand of shame in Haruka, quickly quelled by Matsuoka’s quiet, “It’s the same—for me. But, just—” He glanced over at the monitors, then flicked his eyes up to the cameras. They were on duty—they had a job to do. “Let’s get this over with—maybe if we give them a good show, they’ll give us leave and we can have an open-water run of our own?” He quirked a brow, and while Haruka doubted that would be possible—they’d probably be subjected to all manner of post-mission tests and evaluations—the thought was nice.

“…Right,” he allowed with an almost imperceptible nod, then flattened his lips into a thin line, calling out over the comm unit in a steady voice, “Omega Free, calibrated and proofed.”

 _“Glad to hear it, pilots,”_ came the Marshal’s response, followed by muffled background noise before he addressed them again. _“We’ll put your Jaeger through its paces just as we discussed in the briefing—details should be displayed on your HUD views. Confirm maneuvers order.”_

A stream of characters flashed before Haruka’s eyes, scrolling down the inside of the visor—coordinates for single-player war-games for the most part, with a few basic maneuvers to help them adjust to the way Omega Free handled. No wonder the PPDC hadn’t wanted to risk seasoned pilots in the Jaeger; learning to pilot this water-borne prototype would’ve ruined future efforts to return to land-based models.

Some of the excitement was back, now—muddled so much that he couldn’t tell if it was his own or Matsuoka’s or some combination of both. Probably the latter, because Matsuoka’s gaze was sharp and alert, and his body visibly tense for activity. Haruka felt the same, like he was a coiled spring, and he was suddenly reminded of the way Matsuoka liked to snap the band of his goggles against his swim cap, tugging the strap as far back as it would stretch before releasing it like a bullet from a chamber. That was what he felt like right now, all this potential energy waiting to be put to use, to expand and fill this machine with his intent and desires—with _their_ intent and desires.

_“Gentlemen? Whenever you’re ready, proceed at your pleasure.”_

And without another word spoken—because what need was there, when they shared a will?—they dove.

* * *

Matsuoka's victory crow was sharp and grating over the comm, echoing loudly off of the steel hull of their Jaeger, and Haruka shot him a glare which was soundly ignored. Really, he didn't understand what there was to celebrate; sure, they were halfway through their maneuvers, but they'd only scored passing marks on most (turns out the top brass tended to frown on nearly destroying the hull of a submarine you were only supposed to detain—only watertight seals had kept the number of flooded compartments at two), and even the actions they had performed admirably were stiff and stilted compared to the Jaegers currently in the field. Prototype or not, they needed a tighter turning radius and more accurate sonar readouts.

They were being directed to their next coordinates now, and Haruka lazily let his arms drop, performing the synchronized routine with Matsuoka that had their Jaeger listing into a turn before powering forward to the assigned quadrant. Two hours into their maneuvers, Haruka was, despite initial misgivings, still quite impressed with the Jaeger's overall performance. For a system initially designed for land-based assaults, the technicians had altered the form and function admirably for a marine assault, and while he had absolutely no desire to test the mettle of a prototype against an actual kaiju, he was reasonably confident that within a year of testing and tweaking, the first of these marine Jaegers could be stepping off the production line, ready to host a new breed of Pilot.

His fingers twitched again, tapping against the hull where the arms lay flush against the Jaeger's sides, and Matsuoka snickered next to him. "Patience is a virtue."

"Shut up," he mumbled, irritated with himself that he'd let the habit develop; it was just the stress, the pressure to perform, that had him longing for contact even here, inside the Drift. Touch was neither necessary nor prudent when they had a mission to focus on, and restless fingers meant he wasn't concentrating as well as he ought to be. 

Fingers...the Jaeger had demonstrated fine motor skills earlier when they'd been tasked with disarming a naval mine—and Haruka had felt a wave of pride bubble up with the knowledge that he'd been largely responsible for their success in that assignment, though it was getting more and more difficult to tell where he ended and Matsuoka began. It had only been the smile Matsuoka had flashed him after the Marshal had congratulated them on a job well done and the cocky, "About time you started pulling your weight around here," that had reassured him Matsuoka couldn't have executed the activity alone. It seemed there was more to Drifting than simply a shared neural burden—there was also the rather literal application of the idiom _two heads are better than one_.

Their meager successes, though, rather than inspiring confidence that they were making remarkable headway into the field of Jaeger research, instead unsettled Haruka on a deeper level, leaving him wondering in an idle corner of his mind which country the technology they were helping to develop would be sold to as part of a military contract when the war with the kaiju and Precursors ended. Because it would end, one way or another, and if humanity came out on top, the truce that had been entered into by the nations of the world would not hold for long after. Sooner or later, people would look for new enemies within their own borders or those of old rivals, and the Jaegers and their Pilots would be tasked with turning their guns on the species they'd been built, been _trained_ to protect.

Haruka hoped to find himself buried away once more deep within the bowels of whatever the Shatterdomes became after the war ended before that happened. He'd made peace long ago with never being able to be a Pilot, and perhaps it wouldn't be so bad for Omega Free to be his first and final Jaeger assignment.

Flicking his gaze surreptitiously over at Matsuoka, whose eyes were fixed ahead on the HUD, watching the seascape drift by, he wondered distantly what Matsuoka would do when this was all done. Would he be shipped off to another Shatterdome after the Omega Free project came to its conclusion? 

For that matter, what would happen to _them_? To their Drift? Was the Ghost Drift something that lingered long after, even if Pilots never Drifted properly again? Haruka hadn't taken leave since Matsuoka arrived, so it was impossible to tell if there was some distance over which their Drift was active, beyond which they could no longer feel or communicate, but it did make one wonder. 

If Matsuoka Drifted again with someone else, would Haruka feel it? If Matsuoka moved on, moved _away_ , if the war ended and he shacked up with a girlfriend in a 2LDK in Nagasaki and became a salaryman, would Haruka feel it? Matsuoka said he couldn't read Haruka's mind, and Haruka certainly couldn't read _his_ —had enough trouble deciphering his _own_ thoughts—but...Makoto had said Ghost Drifts were rare, so who knew? Would Matsuoka feel Haruka's irritation and disappointment when some new recruit scored a lucky strike on him come Training Day, even from the 2LDK he'd be sharing with a girlfriend in Nagasaki? Would Haruka have to deal with idle remarks when he least expected it, like _Mackerel again, Haru?_ or _You were slow on your start and your turn was stiff; do I need to kick your ass again?_

Or—and this set a lead weight in his stomach—would he have to deal with Matsuoka's nightmares for the rest of his life, or at least until he had a mental breakdown from being unable to bear it anymore? Would Matsuoka be transferred again, leaving behind only his demons to settle in a dark corner of Haruka's mind, creeping out to prey on his dreams every night without Matsuoka there to provide blessed touch and distraction? Would he get the Bends and be just another footnote in Matsuoka's personnel file?

"I won't let that happen."

Breath caught in his throat, suddenly dry and parched, which sounded ridiculous, given that they were surrounded on all sides by cold, dark walls of water. He swallowed painfully, but his voice still sounded scratchy and hesitant. "...What?"

Matsuoka kept his gaze ahead, skillfully piloting the machine while Haruka's focus was clearly elsewhere, but his words were calm and clear and full of conviction that forced belief even when Haruka wasn't sure he was willing to concede it. He repeated his vow: "I won't let that happen."

Haruka didn't miss that he'd purposefully disconnected his comm unit for this conversation, brows wrinkling. "...You were listening again. To my thoughts."

"I _told_ you," Matsuoka reminded wearily, with no small amount of irritation in his voice, "I can't _do that_. You just _really_ need to work on building up walls if you're gonna worry about shit like that around me. One of these days—"

But he never got to finish his warning, because the Conn Pod was instantly bathed in red light and klaxons began to blare, their comm units crackling to life with, _"Movement in the Breach! I repeat, we have a Breach Event!"_

 __Haruka froze, eyes immediately going to the HUD and pulling up a view of the ocean stretching wide and vast just outside their Jaeger—dark and deep and now hiding a kaiju somewhere. Readouts began to scroll over his HUD, and voices frantically called out commands and responses back and forth over their comm units, but Haruka tuned them all out, imagining that he could see in the far off distance a monster, a great leviathan, coming for them with outstretched tentacles, reaching inky and black for Haruka like they had in the nothingness outside the safety of the Drift when—

"Sir—Marshal!" Matsuoka's voice was harried and trembling, though it was clear he was trying his best to keep it steady, and Haruka watched him react to the event with undisguised awe, having never seen Matsuoka so nakedly unsettled. "Marshal! We need to sever the connection. Please _—disengage the Neural Handshake_!"

 _"Negative,"_ came the sharp response, though Haruka was admittedly shocked Sasabe had even spared a moment to reply, given that he needed to be working to scramble proper Jaeger teams to meet the threat should the beast turn its sights on Japan's eastern seaboard. _"You're to stay put—we don't need you out there underfoot, distracting the teams we might have to send in. We'll pick up the drills again after we see where this thing's headed."_

 __"Sir, with all due respect—" His grit teeth didn't seem to suggest he had much respect left, though, and Haruka could see sweat beading at Matsuoka's temples. "—We _must_ disengage the Handshake. _Immediately_. There's—" He seemed to struggle for an explanation, something he could use to convince Sasabe to give the order, which baffled Haruka. The Marshal clearly had more pressing matters to attend to just now. "The event will— _dammit_ , just, we need to—"

A searing pain lanced through Haruka's mind—and if he hadn't been strapped in, he likely would have doubled over. He brought his arms up to brace his head, a voiceless scream scarring his throat as he fought the urge to bash his skull into the hull of the Conn Pod just to distract from the _burning_ , something huge and dark and menacing filling his brain and bearing down on him, trying to pop him open like a—

" _HARU!_ " Matsuoka shrieked, his cry echoed by a curse in Haruka's mind in a language he didn't understand but felt like he should, like he'd heard it somewhere before—and the pain faded to a dull throbbing ache, though it felt more like the way the sea pulled back just before sending a towering wave to crash down against the shoreline.

And then—it came: a high, piercing screech in the Drift, screaming one word over and over and over.

**_Intruder_.**

_"Kaiju has shifted course! Category 3 on a direct heading for the eastern coast of Japan!"_

__Even through the agony, though, he could feel the sick, slimy sensation of fear and anxiety radiating off of Matsuoka, face pale and limbs trembling. "MARSHAL! Ranger Matsuoka requesting _IMMEDIATE_  Drift dissolution! I _know_ you can hear me up there!" His voice broke with desperation, and Haruka watched in shocked silence as Matsuoka summarily fell apart, his head pounding from the barrage of _intruder intruder intruder_ , a neverending mantra that came in not just one voice but _dozens_ , a discordant chorus clamoring inside his mind, like the eyes that watched from the Drift had suddenly been granted _mouths_ and were free to speak. "CUT THE CONNECTION! _NOW!_ "

This far removed from the carrier where there LOCCENT personnel were monitoring their status, Haruka couldn't brush their minds to determine how they felt about Matsuoka's breakdown, but he knew what they had to be thinking: _he's gone off the deep end, just overreacting, one too many drops, must be why Sydney was glad to be rid of him_. It was what anyone would think, seeing Matsuoka practically paralyzed with fear and screaming into his comm unit with such desperation that his voice was starting to go hoarse.

But then, they were not Haruka. The NBOs and Marshal Sasabe and Makoto weren't clinging to one end of a thread glowing red and raw, wondering how much more abuse their connection could take before it sizzled and snapped into oblivion, they couldn't _feel_ the fear Matsuoka was being overwhelmed by right now and understand that it wasn't fear for _himself_ , it wasn't self-preservation driving him to desperate lengths.

It was fear for _Haruka_.

_"Kaiju is approaching at speed, five minutes out until it hits Japanese waters. Kaiju's target is the Greater Tokyo Metropolitan Area."_

__" _Fuck!_ " Rin cursed again, tone leaching panic, and his fingers came up to his helmet, trembling and awkward, to scrabble at the clasps attaching it to the drivesuit as he ripped it off in one smooth movement and heaved himself free of his seat in the pod, instantly severing the connection forcibly as the connectors were ripped from the spinal clamp along the back of their suits. 

Haruka gasped audibly as he felt Matsuoka's consciousness being torn from his own, leaving behind jagged edges and frayed ends that fluttered about limply, desperate to restore the connection. Matsuoka was at his side in an instant, muttering apologies under his breath and voicing gratitude that _no nosebleeds, thank fuck_ , vowing to make it better, but that they had bigger issues to deal with, and that Haruka was a 'big boy' and surely he could stitch up a few mental rips in no time, right? "Just use that thread," Matsuoka reassured, taking greater care to unlatch Haruka's helmet from his drivesuit and tugging the connectors free from the spinal clamp. "Easy, easy—I wish we didn't have to be so fast and dirty here, but we've gotta abandon ship."

Haruka felt sluggish, his mind hazy with pain and fear paralyzing his limbs—but through it all, he knew something wasn't right. "Abandon...? We can't..."

"Oh we definitely _can_ , and we _are_." He ducked down and supported Haruka with his shoulder, looping an arm around his waist to guide him toward a cramped hatch meant to be used as an escape pod—and here it hit Haruka that _shit_ , Matsuoka was serious. They were going to abandon their _perfectly functioning_ Jaeger (oh the PPDC would _not_ be happy with them) in the middle of a Breach event, under _explicit orders_ to stand their ground. They weren't combat ready—couldn't enter the fray even if they _wanted_ to, not with the limited light artillery Omega Free had been outfitted with, so what the hell was Matsuoka thinking? 

Haruka braced his feet, forcing Matsuoka to stagger. "What...we can't abandon...the Jaeger." His lips were numb and his speech stilted, but his mind was rapidly clearing as it worked to reassign all of the frayed edges of his consciousness. "They'll...sortie Jaegers from the Shatterdome...and Osaka. We're not in danger—we can still..." But even as he said these things, something didn't quite sit right. They weren't in danger, they _shouldn't_ be in danger, but Matsuoka's fear was genuine and felt _founded_ , and while the angry voices in his mind had ceased their chatter the moment Matsuoka had ripped himself from the Drift, he could still feel their echoes, like an inflamed brand on his mind that throbbed as a reminder of the trauma he'd just suffered. No nosebleeds, Matsuoka had muttered as he'd tugged Haruka free of his restraints, and something in his mind reminded _epistaxis._ Matsuoka had been checking him for Drifter Bends.

Matsuoka ignored his protests, punching in a code on the keypad that locked off the escape pod. "Get in the pod, Haru."

Haruka took a single, confused step back, shaking his head drunkenly. "We're supposed to...stay, Marshal said—"

"The Marshal doesn't know what the fuck is going on," Matsuoka snarled, snapping out a hand to grip Haruka by the wrist, and while he knew he ought to be able to break it—could probably break Matsuoka's _arm_ in the process if he wanted—he held off, struggling to organize his thoughts. Matsuoka mistook this for further hesitation and obstinance, though, and tugged insistently, "We have to _go_ Haru! I got us out of the Drift, but you're still—" He cut himself off, groaning. "Just— _come on!_ We need to get you back to the surface, get that Psych Analyst of yours to look you over—"

"He has a name," Haruka reminded, petulantly annoyed that Matsuoka refused to address Makoto properly. "Tachiba—"

"Fuck this," Matsuoka growled, tugging off his gloves and laying bare hands against the only bit of exposed skin he could find that wasn't covered in a circuitry suit or body armor—Haruka's cheeks and jaw.

Haruka gasped weakly, feeling his knees start to give out, but Matsuoka angled him into an embrace and kept their contact, feeding thoughts of escape and fear and primal urges for self-preservation into Haruka over their thread. Haruka felt himself drowning in wave after wave of fear he knew to be artificial—or at least, forced upon him rather than experienced naturally, and distantly he realized that Matsuoka was _using_ this, using their Ghost Drift to force Haruka to _feel_ something that he didn't feel, not the way Matsuoka wanted him to, at least. Haruka felt concern and worry and distrust, but Matsuoka was wrapping him tight in their Thread, almost suffocating him with thoughts that bordered more closely on the demons Matsuoka battled at night. It was _wrong_ , on so many levels, and maybe if he'd been expecting it, if this had been a _challenge_ , he could have erected a barrier in time, just like he did to keep the thoughts of those around him at bay—but he hadn't been prepared, had never _imagined_ that the Drift could be used like this, and now he was paying the price.

"I'm sorry, Haru..." Matsuoka apologized softly, guiding him into the pod and keeping one hand clamped tight at the back of his neck.

"Fuck you," he ground out in response, voice quavering as he tried to brace himself against the doorway. "Get me out of this stupid thing..." At this point, though, he couldn't tell if he meant out of the escape pod...or the Jaeger.

* * *

The Drivesuit room was chaos. The kaiju had been intercepted and dispatched before it passed the continental shelf, and cleanup crews had already been scrambled. The veteran Jaeger teams that had swooped in to save the day were already being debriefed—as were Haruka and Matsuoka, of a sort.

"You disobeyed a _direct order_! You were told to _hold your ground_ , and you not only turned tail, you abandoned your Jaeger!"

Matsuoka kept his gaze fixed straight ahead and schooled his features. "The kaiju had turned and we were in its path, Sir. I took immediate action to ensure the safety of both myself and my Partner. If I've acted out of line with the principles of the PPDC, then I apologize—"

Sasabe laughed sharply, leaning over the table without a trace of amusement in his expression. "You _apologize_. For what? Leaving Omega Free to sink? Ruining two Drivesuits and a _very expensive_ _custom design_ Conn Pod unit? Taking yourself and Nanase out of the frying pan and into the _fucking fire_ by activating that escape pod when there were Jaegers in the field and a kaiju heading your way? Enlighten me, Matsuoka; just _which part_ are you apologizing for, exactly?"

Matsuoka remained stoic. "...As I said, the kaiju had _turned_ , and if we hadn't—"

Sasabe was instantly in his face, snarling low and soft, "I don’t care if the next incarnation of the _fucking Buddha_ told you that kaiju was going to turn. When you’re ordered to hold your ground, you HOLD IT.” His voice rose throughout the tirade until it could be heard throughout the Jaeger Bay by the end, but still Matsuoka didn't flinch, and Sasabe pulled back, breathing heavily. "...Get the hell out of my sight. You're both confined to quarters until further notice."

Matsuoka didn't say a word, just squared his jaw and turned on one heel to march out with his head held high. Haruka watched him leave, eyes trained on his form until it disappeared behind the doors of an elevator, and it was only Makoto's gentle, "Haru-chan?" that called him back. He was still being detained to have the damage from the abruptly severed Drift evaluated, but even he could tell that most of the damage was already on its way to being repaired—and blessedly, the Ghost Drift was still intact, though Matsuoka had erected another of his walls to keep Haruka out of his head. 

He was still trying to process what had happened, but no one was _talking_ , and the only emotions were the ones typically left in the wake of a kaiju appearance: fear, anger, confusion. He felt a lot of that himself, but bitterly recalled that plenty of that lingering fear was what Matsuoka had forced on him through their link in order to convince Haruka to abandon Omega Free. It made no _sense_ —they hadn't been in immediate danger that he could tell, and even if they _had_ been in the line of fire, wouldn't it have been just as easy to maneuver the Jaeger out of range, far beyond where it might interfere with the other Jaegers' efforts to take down the monster? 

He could feel Makoto's curiosity, tinged with worry and suspicion, but he thankfully didn't press the matter, capping his pen and slipping it back into his pocket as he waved Haruka off. "I'll want to see you again for a session tomorrow, if the Marshal doesn't hang you out to dry." He smiled to show he was joking, but they both understood that there were very real consequences in both Haruka's and Matsuoka's future for their actions in the field today. They wouldn't scrape by with a slap on the wrists—hell, they'd probably be lucky to avoid serving time in a military prison, as it could be argued that their actions had endangered other personnel.

Haruka ducked a nod, slipping off without requesting leave in the hopes that he could avoid drawing the Marshal's wrath any further. Maybe Makoto could put in a good word for him, explain about the Ghost Drift, that Matsuoka had practically forced him out of the Jaeger. It didn't quite sit right, throwing Matsuoka under the bus like that—but he'd brought this on himself, whatever his reasoning may have been.

His head was still pounding—though no longer from the onslaught of voices he didn't recognize screaming at him to _get out intruder begone **intruder** leave this place **INTRUDER**_ , but instead because his head felt too _full_ , bursting with information and knowledge he couldn't begin to parse, let alone understand or relate, a stream of data that washed over him like a rushing river that he was drowning in instead of riding. He couldn't process it, couldn't get a handle on it, only knew that it was _there_ , just out of reach—that it had been _put there_ , somehow, while Matsuoka had screamed at LOCCENT to cut the Drift. And lurking beneath that river of information was an undercurrent of raw, animal emotion—greed and hunger and all of those dark things that Matsuoka warned him again, told him to _ignore_ in the Drift lest 'they' find him.

Well 'they' had found him anyway, had _followed him out of the Drift_ , even, and now the traces they'd left behind were scraping against the inside of his skull, demanding release, which he would have gladly given if he knew _how_. But he didn't know, even though it felt like he _ought_ to—he _ought_ to understand these things, could feel the irritation of something being just on the tip of his tongue. He could hear Matsuoka cursing in his mind in a language he didn't understand and knew, instinctively, what it meant, but he still couldn't _explain_ it. He only understood emotions, not enough to translate. But that was more than enough for him to know that whatever was in his head now...nothing good would come of it.

He swiped his card over the reader locking their quarters, but wasn't surprised in the least to find the rooms dark and empty with Matsuoka nowhere to be found. There was only one place he could be, and he'd probably gone there as much for some time alone as to piss off the Marshal further, a giant _fuck you for not trusting me_ that Matsuoka _really_ was in no position to give. If he'd been a recruit under Haruka, he would have given him a sound thrashing and left Matsuoka to lick his wounds—but they were supposed to be partners, and there were _far_ too many unanswered questions lingering at the edges of Haruka's consciousness.

It was _long_ past time to talk.

* * *

The natatorium was empty again today, not by any stroke of luck, but likely because there was a Shatterdome-wide lockdown with all non-essential personnel ordered to remain in their quarters. No one would be out for a leisurely swim right now—and neither were he or Matsuoka.

He found Matsuoka sitting at the edge of the pool, leaning against the middle-most starting block as he dangled his toes in the water. He'd been doing that more lately, ever since they'd started Drifting, and Haruka distantly wondered if this was part of him rubbing off on Matsuoka, that urge to immerse himself when he was feeling anxious or worrying over something. "...I don't think these are our quarters."

Matsuoka shrugged to himself. "Not like the Marshal can get any more pissed at us." There was a pause, and Haruka was certain Matsuoka had grimaced, for he corrected, "...at _me_."

"So you came here to feel sorry for yourself." He toed off his shoes as Matsuoka twisted around to glare up at him.

"I came here to _think_. And to be alone."

Haruka snorted incredulously. "You refuse to give me a moment's peace, take up my free time and demand races and relays of me, and now you have the gall to ask to be _left alone_?" A scoff. "Selfish asshole."

"Never claimed to be otherwise," Matsuoka muttered, drawing his knees up to rest his chin on them and stare out over the water. Haruka joined him in a quiet moment of reflection, because such leisures would soon no longer be available.

He swirled one foot in a slow, gentle circle, watching the ripples expand out across the water. "...Why were you scared?"

Their thread went tense and taut, and he could feel Matsuoka actively pulling away. "...Scared?" he returned, playing dumb, and Haruka felt annoyance flare up.

"Don't treat me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm stupid."

"I'm not," Matsuoka insisted, jaw clenched. "I just don't know what you're talking about."

"You can't lie in the Drift. You know that." He fixed Matsuoka with a hard stare, willing him to meet his gaze, but Matsuoka refused.

After a long moment, he allowed, "...There's a lot you don't know about the Drift."

"Yeah, I'm _getting that_." He still intended to beat the shit out of Matsuoka for that stunt in the Conn Pod, too, but this conversation took precedence. Then he frowned as he realized what Matsuoka was getting at. "...You can lie in the Drift?" His brows furrowed as he took the realization to its ultimate conclusion: "...You've been lying _to me_...?" He snapped a hand out gripping Matsuoka by the shoulder and clenching his fingers in the fabric, giving a little shake. "Answer me— _why were you scared_?"

Matsuoka rolled his shoulder in annoyance, finally meeting his gaze, and laughed bitterly. "What, you thought I'd just charge into the fray, guns blazing? That I'm not afraid of anything?" He shook his head and snorted softly. "...Guess I'm not everything you've built me up to be in your head." 

Haruka humored him. "...So that's it? You were just scared of the kaiju? Of being in the line of fire? You had _no other reason_ for forcing me— _forcing me_ —into that escape pod?" Matsuoka was silent, his mind still cordoned off by thick walls—and this time Haruka wanted desperately to charge through them, just to piss Matsuoka off. "...Do you think I'm _stupid_?"

And now Matsuoka blinked, thrown, and his question this time was genuine: "Do I...what?"

"Do you think I'm _stupid_?" Haruka repeated slowly, feeling his anger and irritation bubbling in a soup just below the surface, one spark away from exploding. He was usually so calm, so controlled, but Matsuoka _did things_ to him, forced _emotion_ from him that he usually kept bottled up inside, and right here, right now, he had a mind to let it all go. "Maybe you _can_ lie to me in the Drift—but you weren't. Not earlier. You were _afraid_ , and not for us, not even for _yourself_. For _me_ , just like every night, every time that—that _whatever_ it is consumes us, I can feel that fear of yours again. _For me_. You're afraid _for me_ , and I think I deserve to know if I should be afraid _too_." He pursed his lips, vibrating with anger. "That thing was coming for us today. And I want to know _why_."

Matsuoka averted his gaze, shifting to press his back against the starting block, patently desperate to put as much space between himself and Haruka as he could. "That's...just, it's how it is, I told you." His brows bunched and his face screwed up. "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to."

"And I'm saying _I want to know_!"

"You shouldn't! You shouldn't _want_ to know this stuff! It's like the Drift, okay? Step where I tell you to, and everything will be fine. _Do as I say_ , and don't ask questions!"

Haruka wanted to punch him; instead, he slapped the starting block with his palm, relishing the sharp sting of pain. "What part of _any of this_ looks 'fine' to you? I'm—" He took a breath, steadying his tone, and dropped his voice. "I'm not getting back in a Conn Pod with you until I get some _answers_. I'll ask as many questions as I like until I'm satisfied."

A look of hurt betrayal flashed across Matsuoka's face, gone just as quickly and replaced instead with a frustrated snarl as Matsuoka snapped his hands out to grab Haruka's wrists and pull his hands up to grip Matsuoka's head by the temples, shaking for emphasis. " _Fine_ ," he growled in challenge. "You want your fucking answers? Then dig around and _find them yourself_." His expression twisted into one of self-loathing as he added, "It's your funeral."

Haruka openly gaped for a long moment, but the comforting tendril of completion that rippled through him at the contact of flesh to flesh quickly recharged him, urging him closer, and in a petulant fit, he decided to do just what Matsuoka was testing him to, furrowing his brow in concentration and reaching out with purpose—only to come up against Matsuoka's wall, thick and impenetrable. "Let me in, then..." he mumbled, expression softening when he realized that Matsuoka wasn't consciously keeping him out anymore, that the wall was simply there out of _habit_. "Rin."

A shudder rippled up through Matsuoka in response to his name on Haruka's lips, vibrating across their thread, and the wall instantly fell away, the vacuum within pulling Haruka down through a maze of emotions, flashes of panic and frustration and confusion— _desperation_ , everything raw and basic and primal but _genuine_ , and whatever secrets Matsuoka was keeping, he couldn't be lying about _this_ , not when it felt more real than anything he'd ever experienced. He could feel Matsuoka rise up to meet him in return, pouring into him a shower of comfort and affection and cordial challenge and reassurance, still laced with a thread of worry and concern, though. It all felt so  _true_ , though Haruka had to remind himself that the road to hell was paved with good intentions. Maybe Matsuoka meant well; it didn't excuse the means by which he accomplished his goals. 

"I'm sorry," Matsuoka muttered, voice thick and broken, "It was the only way, I had to get you out—" He tightened his grip around Haruka's wrists, tugging insistently, "—I couldn't explain, I can't explain, just—I needed you to trust me, and I know I haven't given you any reason to, but I _needed_ it, I needed you—"

And then, he felt it, he could _see it_ , could feel it like the conscious thought of moving an arm that wasn't his own—the foresight of the Drift, intent made visual, tangible. He could _see_ Matsuoka leaning forward to close the gap between them, could feel him shifting and cocking his head, and it was the most natural thing in the world to do as the Drift directed and complete the circuit between them, because it wasn't _him_ doing it—it was the Drift, and hadn't Matsuoka _said_ that the Ghost Drift was stronger, _better_ than Drifting in a Jaeger? So it wasn't _him_ leaning forward to kiss Matsuoka, it wasn't _him_ shifting his fingers back from Matsuoka's temple to bury them in his unruly hair, it wasn't _him_ pressing Matsuoka roughly against the starting block, forcing his lips apart with his tongue and swallowing all the other feeble apologies and nonsensical explanations. It was the Drift, Matsuoka's own thoughts and desires reflected back in perfect harmony. That was all.

His fingers slipped down to just under Matsuoka's ears, gripping tight at the neck to steady his head, and he used the leverage to force the kiss deeper, lost in a wave of sensation washing over him that he'd never felt before—arousal, desire, affection, confusion, all mingling together into a heady drug that made Haruka want _more_ , Drift or none. But Matsuoka tilted his head down and to the side, spurning Haruka's attentions, and he muttered weakly, "Cameras...on the pool..."

 _Shit_.

He froze in place, forcing his breathing to even out, and concentrated on the heat radiating between their bodies. He couldn't stop to reflect on what he'd just done—what the Drift had made them do, he reminded; he'd just been following the flow, anticipating Matsuoka's movement and heading him off at the pass—because then he'd get _lost_ in it, and he wanted desperately to ride this out just now to its inevitable conclusion. Licking his lips, he reminded thickly, "...We're supposed to be in our quarters anyway."

* * *

_'...He really ought to cut his hair.'_

__It was the only clear thought he could manage, sitting on the edge of the tub as he worked the shampoo he'd drizzled over Matsuoka's hair into a fine lather. Matsuoka sat between his legs on a low stool, head tilted back and eyes closed as he allowed Haruka to wash his hair, the world and their problems kept at bay behind a door of translucent glass for the time being. Haruka inhaled deeply, letting the steam fill his lungs before exhaling, and he slowly massaged the soapy foam into Matsuoka's scalp, marveling at the sensation.

He must have rubbed a particularly good spot, for Matsuoka listed to the side and leaned against his leg, breath hitching as he nuzzled the sensitive skin around Haruka's knee.

Haruka frowned but didn't pause in his ministrations. "...You'll get soap in your eyes."

"So rinse me off."

"I'm not done washing your hair."

"Did we seriously come in here so you could wash my hair?" He twisted just enough to glance suggestively over his shoulder, meeting Haruka's gaze with a hooded one of his own, and Haruka felt himself harden underneath the thin towel he'd changed into. Matsuoka's position invited a lot of rather crude imagery—but nothing more. The Drift wasn't driving this now, the moment earlier in the pool having been broken by Matsuoka's heated reminder that they could be caught by the security cameras, and Haruka was lost once more. He hadn't directed Matsuoka in here for an aesthetic treatment, no, but he'd largely been operating on instinct then, his half-hard dick leading the way with Matsuoka following obediently.

Matsuoka must have sensed his concern and confusion, though, for he reached for Haruka's hands again, replacing them just at his temples, the pads of his fingers tracing the thin line of his eyebrows before sinking into his hairline. "Stop thinking so hard about it. Just _...drift_. _"_

So he did, slipping off the edge of the tub and sliding his hands down to Matsuoka's neck again, tugging him forward as he cocked his head to the side to receive an open-mouthed, eager kiss that was all full-blooded intent and driven by _them_ , not the Drift. He felt that heady mix of arousal and anxiety and lust drape over them once more, detecting an echo of his own desire on the air, and this spurred him to slip a hand between them, met with Matsuoka's own eager fumblings. He slid a hand beneath Matsuoka's towel, tilting his hips to offer Matsuoka free rein to do the same, and gasped into their kiss as rough, nimble fingers gripped him tightly. When the pace proved too slow for his taste, he began to execute shallow thrusts, encouraged when Matsuoka did the same, and he distantly wondered if they were feeding on and into each other, their own pleasure in turn pleasuring each other, and _fuck_ what might it be like to come like this?

"Let's...find out..." Matsuoka murmured against the corner of his mouth, breaking the kiss to duck down and lay his mouth against Haruka's neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Haruka shuddered, hips snapping, and tightened his grip around Matsuoka's neck to pull him close. Their bare chests brushed together, lather and water combining to set them slipping slickly over one another as they worked each other's cock. 

"Matsu... _ok_ —a..." he breathed, eyes closed tight as he let the sounds of dripping water and the _schlick_ of fingers and fists flying over shafts heavy with desire fill his ears. He could lose himself in this moment, could give himself up to the pleasure and let his consciousness be carried away, could tie himself up with enough of their Thread to hang himself with and just _let go_.

" _Rin_..." Matsuoka reminded with amusement in his voice, suckling at the mark he'd made earlier before softly blowing over it to raise goosebumps.

"Rin..." Haruka allowed, so drunk on pleasure that he nearly missed the wave of eerily familiar emotions wash over him in response to the concession, as Matsuoka urged him toward his climax: greed, hunger, _possession_ —animalistic desires, base _need_ , the same things he'd felt inside the Conn Pod earlier were radiating almost palpably off of Matsuoka right now, and he didn't want to think about _why_. 

He was pulled back to the present, desire quenched by the unsettling wave of emotions but body too far gone to fail now, and his hips jerked a final, shuddering protest as he met his release, Matsuoka following shortly with thrusts of his own into the channel Haruka's fist had made when his own ministrations had faltered, distracted.

The bathroom was filled with heavy, labored breathing for a few long moments before they finally extricated themselves from one another, and Matsuoka stumbled on jelly-like legs over to the showerhead, his towel nearly falling off of his hips, to rinse the rest of the shampoo from his hair. Haruka closed his eyes, grateful for some distance and relief from the Ghost Drift. He'd been too unsettled, too distracted, to enjoy any mutual pleasure the Drift might have offered—and he didn't doubt his lack of focus had resonated with Matsuoka as well. He felt a twinge of guilt on some level—he _had_ genuinely hoped to offer pleasure in committing himself to this act—but it was overshadowed by the lingering echoes of the emotions Matsuoka had poured into him—all of those primal, animalistic, _inhuman_ cravings, base and simple. On their own, they would mean nothing, might even be _flattering_ if he and Matsuoka had _that_ kind of a relationship, but on the heels of the incident earlier...it was just another piece to a puzzle that grew more complex with every passing moment.

He left Matsuoka to finish cleaning up, clasping his towel closed with one hand as he shuffled into the room to rifle through his drawers for clean underwear with the other. They hadn't had dinner, but he wasn't feeling particularly hungry; if Matsuoka wanted to make himself something, he was welcome to the kitchen. By the time Matsuoka exited the bathroom, Haruka had doused the lights on his side of the room and slipped under the covers—and he wasn't surprised when he heard Matsuoka pause, consider the situation, and then make his way back over to his own bed. They would be facing Matsuoka's dreams on their own tonight, it seemed, and Haruka wondered if this was Matsuoka's way of punishing him—or if he even _wanted_ to be near Matsuoka tonight.

A soft _click_ , and the room was plunged into darkness, silence settling between them. Come morning, they would receive a thorough dressing down, be demoted at the _very_ least, discharged at best, ordered before a tribunal at worst—but tonight, they were still free men, and Haruka would take his punishment when it came, but _not_ in ignorance. "...I still haven't gotten an answer," he reminded, voice eerily loud in the darkness.

No response came, though, and he wondered for a moment if Matsuoka wasn't already asleep, until: "...I'm sorry, but—you won't let me protect you. If you find out."

Haruka stiffened, because it was the closest he'd gotten to a straight answer this whole time, and maybe this was Matsuoka's idea of a peace offering, or maybe just a _thanks for jerking me off_. "What makes you think I want your protection, regardless?" He frowned to himself. "I want a Drift Partner, not a bodyguard."

Again, Matsuoka's response came slowly, like thick molasses dropping from a tree, extracted at great pains. "...You need my protection, whether you want it or not." A pause, and then, "...Drifting with me is dangerous."

Which was a ridiculous thing to say, after all this time, and Haruka sat up straight in bed, staring out into the darkness in what he hoped was Matsuoka's general direction. "What—you mean the Drifter Bends in your file?" He blinked, marveling at the little flickers of light behind his eyes. "It's been weeks, though. I haven't passed out—so whatever the issue was, I'm obviously over it. We were doing so well..." He shook his head, because so much still didn't make _sense_. "You told me to figure it out—but there's a wall you always put up, you realize? A—shell, not only to keep others out, but to keep whatever's behind it _in_." He fisted his hands in the sheets, feeling his heartrate pick up. "...I want to know what's behind it. I want you to show me."

A long stretch of silence—and then the creaking of bedsprings and the soft rustle of Matsuoka's feet over the grungy carpet covering the floor. He felt his covers being tugged away as Matsuoka slipped in next to him, drawing the comforter up and over their shoulders as he slid in flush against Haruka, foreheads pressed together and breath mingling hot and humid between them. "Yeah..." Matsuoka allowed softly. "I promised you, didn't I?" And Haruka could _hear_ the bitter smile in his tone. "A sight you'd never seen before." Matsuoka draped an arm over his shoulder to slide their chests flush together, nipples brushing with each inhalation, and Haruka suppressed a brief flicker of arousal, reminded vividly of the slick planes dripping with soap suds and tapering down into a tight stomach. Matsuoka's voice was serious when he reached out mental feelers to tug at Haruka's consciousness, dragging him down into sleep. "I told you...don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to."


	9. Chapter 9

Haruka’s first thought…was that the Anteverse looked kind of like how he expected it would, in that it looked like the sort of place that might give birth to the Eldritch abominations that slipped through the Breach—all barren wasteland and darkness mottled with dirty pastels in a kaleidoscope of color that wasn’t really _color_ , like seeing what it might look like through eyes not quite human, and set high in what must have passed for a sickly blood-red sky, a burning yellow orb like a dying sun floated in the distance, setting everything awash in dim, flickering hues.

His second thought was not so much a thought as a _realization_ —that he wasn’t really here. That this wasn’t the _present_ , if such concepts existed between dimensions like his own and that of the Anteverse, and that what he was seeing was merely a memory granted him by Matsuoka, like the one Haruka had shared with him the evening of the blackout.

He could feel Matsuoka’s presence—even if he couldn’t see him—and when he instinctively reached out to brush questing fingers along their Thread, he was relieved to find it vibrating still with life and energy. Nervous energy, at that—though not frightened, at least. This felt more human, more _flawed_ and genuine in the face of so much _inhumanity_ , like Matsuoka was just holding his breath and waiting for Haruka to take it all in—and then turn on him.

_’Stop worrying about me,’_ a voice in his mind chided, the tone light and familiar but edged with tension, _’And take a good long look at the answers you so desperately wanted.’_

And suddenly he understood what he was seeing—a memory. Of the Anteverse. A place no human had ever set foot—nor, from the looks of it, would ever survive in—with kaiju of all shapes and sizes lined up along towering, ceilingless walls and hanging overhead like sides of beef in a slaughterhouse, some torn open on dissection tables, others incubating in huge tanks tended by creatures that he instantly understood to be _Precursors_.

Everything humanity knew—or thought they knew—about the Anteverse and the kaiju and their masters was eclipsed in the blink of an eye, a snapshot in a memory providing a greater wealth of information and knowledge than they’d gained in years of fruitless battles and Pyrrhic victories. These were the kaiju birthing grounds.

He felt Matsuoka directing his attention to a dark corner, then, and his blood ran cold as an all-too-human scream rent the air, a child’s voice—high and terrified and in _pain_. A pair of Precursors worked with preternatural speed to slice and stab and _suck_ — _harvesting biomaterial_ —and with a gurgling whine, the boy expired.

_’…The original,’_ Matsuoka explained, and even from here, from far away in distance and time, Haruka could still _feel_ the child’s fear and confusion and pain lingering on the air—along with a strange, unexpected thread of _shame_ from Matsuoka. As if he’d been responsible—

“…That was you.”

_’…No. Not really.’_ And here, Haruka felt something tugging at the edges of his consciousness, an uneasy understanding dawning as he stared down a long line stretching out into the distance—soldiers lined up in neat, sharp phalanxes and standing at attention, waiting for orders.

And every one of them wearing _Matsuoka_ ’s face.

Haruka took an involuntary step back, expecting to be braced by Matsuoka but finding no such support—and wondering if he even wanted it right now, as his stomach lurched. “You…” He shook his head—the Matsuokas all had dead, blank eyes and stared ahead, unseeing. Lifeless; waiting. “What…are you…” It wasn’t a question, because if he posed it as such, Matsuoka would be forced to answer, and he didn’t want that answer, not just yet. He’d asked for it, but he’d expected something like a tearful relation of a Jaeger mission gone wrong, that Matsuoka had been responsible for a Partner’s untimely death, or that he’d deserted and been shipped to Japan from Sydney in shame.

_’Shocktroops,’_ Matsuoka explained coldly, his flat academic tone clearly little more than an effort to appear disaffected. _’You can’t wipe out a rat’s nest through sheer firepower—they’ll hide, run to ground, multiply and come back again and again and again. You think humans are the only ones a step ahead of the vermin they’re trying to wipe out?’_ Haruka’s stomach turned at the way Matsuoka made _human_ sound so distant, so foreign. _’You have to come at them on their level—infiltrate and eliminate. You’re a fool if you think kaiju are all great hulking monsters who knock down buildings and poke holes in Jaegers—no army relies solely on their big guns; it’s the ground forces that ultimately sweep in to restore order.’_

“You’re a spy.” He wondered why it came out sounding so… _observational_ , when it ought to be accusatory, spat out with venom.

Matsuoka chuckled darkly, but it still resonated sad and resigned across their Thread, and Haruka couldn’t help but liken it to the stuffy, suffocating Drivesuit, donned for protection but winding up harming more than helping. It didn’t suit Matsuoka at all and felt no more a part of him than the helmet he’d ripped off in Omega Free earlier. _’You don’t have a word to describe what I am.’_

* * *

Haruka woke with a sharp gasp, hands instantly snapping up to clutch at Matsuoka’s neck like a lifeline. His white-knuckled fingers dug into the soft flesh before he realized what he was doing and tightened, pressing down on Matsuoka’s windpipe and choking with all he had because _this was life and death_ , he had a viper in his bed and he was the only one who knew, the only one who _understood_ what Matsuoka was, what he’d been sent here to do. He had to make good on all that talk about piloting for the good of humanity, to _save the world_ —

And then he was scrambling back across the mattress, slamming up against the wall at his back and breathing hard as he wrapped his arms around himself and whined in distress because _this wasn’t him_ , he hadn’t meant to do that, this was _Matsuoka_ , and whatever the hell he was, Haruka _couldn’t do that_ to him.

“You…you did it again…” He grimaced, pounding his fists against his head to force the lingering traces of rejection and self-loathing from his mind. He was getting better at recognizing Matsuoka’s attempts to poison his mind over the Drift, though, and soon these underhanded attempts to convince him to do Matsuoka’s will would no longer work. He hoped.

Matsuoka coughed feebly, rubbing idly at his neck, but made no move to place more distance between himself and his would-be murderer, instead sprawled on his back and staring up at the ceiling with a gaze as distant and dead as his millions of clones. “…If it helps at all…I didn’t mean to do it this time.” A wry smile rose up, and he rubbed at his eyes. “ _Fuck_ , being human sucks. How the hell do you manage it…”

Haruka’s breath was still coming fast and hard, and he glanced around the room, blinking blindly in the dim light. He needed to turn on the lamps—needed to make some coffee (or something stronger), to sit down and discuss…whatever this was. His mind was racing—there had to be something he could do—and his gaze flickered over to the fire alarm on the far wall by the entryway; would they evacuate the Shatterdome if he pulled it? Was there any point? Was Matsuoka a threat? What the hell was he thinking—of _course_ he was a threat. Everyone in this facility, everyone was going to—

Soft, maniacal giggling interrupted his thoughts, and his gaze flicked back over to Matsuoka, who lifted up on his elbows and cocked his head to the side, brows lifted. “You really think if I was gonna wipe out the Shatterdome I wouldn’t have done it already? Come on, Nanase…” He shook his head. “The kaiju yesterday—it wasn’t coming after _us_ , it wasn’t coming after the Shatterdome.” He fixed Haruka with a serious expression, speaking slowly to ensure he wasn’t misunderstood. “It was coming after _you_.” With a snort, he added blithely, “It wouldn’t attack one of its own, after all.”

Haruka felt some of the tension leave his shoulders at this reminder, inexplicably. _One of their own_ —Matsuoka really _was_ a kaiju, or some new breed thereof, and much as Haruka wanted to play up the memory as some elaborate trick of the mind on Matsuoka’s part, it made no sense for him to do so. More to the point, Matsuoka _imagining_ the horrors he’d seen in the Anteverse was somehow more frightening than embracing the fact that it really had happened.

Still, how had he _missed it_? How had he not noticed that the mind he was Drifting with wasn’t _human_? Shouldn’t the readouts have shown some kind of anomaly? Shouldn’t he have _felt_ something?

“You did; you just didn’t _recognize_ it,” Matsuoka reminded, easing upright to sit at a comfortable distance away, and Haruka shunted his gaze off to the side and swallowed thickly against the ever-present bone-deep urge to reach out and close the circuit, wary now that doing so would compromise the the PPDC even further than it already was.

Something clicked. “…The eyes, in the Drift. It felt like…something was watching us…” He frowned to himself, then glanced up as pieces fell into place. “You protected me…” Or hid him. Either way, it amounted to the same: Haruka being shielded from whatever lurked in the dark corners of the Drift.

Matsuoka didn’t crow _Damn straight!_ with his usual upbeat magnanimity, instead pursing his lips and nodding once. “You know what a hive mind is?”

Haruka pulled his knees to his chest. “…Like bees?”

“Kind of…” Matsuoka scratched at the back of his head. “More like—a giant neural network. One huge Drift, with all the kaiju connected. It’s how they—we—learn and evolve. One of them gets an arm sliced off with a plasma cannon, and the others learn to take out a Jaeger’s shoulder mounts early on so they don’t suffer the same fate. Another comes off worse for wear against a team of Jaegers working in concert, and the others learn to separate the Jaegers and pick them off one by one, not to give them time to act as a team. You see?” Haruka nodded slowly; sentience, _learning_ , these were things K-scientists were just starting to write papers on, nothing they had any concrete _evidence_ of. No two kaiju were the same, like huge destructive snowflakes, so it was hard to ascribe any sort of knowledge or capacity to think to the beasts—but it was also a fact that each successive battle was harder fought than the last, which suggested that somehow, the kaiju were learning their weak points. A hive mind, as Matsuoka explained it, made sense.

“And…that’s what you’re here for, then? To steal information, share it with the other kaiju, the Precursors?” It didn’t sit well with him, thinking of Matsuoka skulking around and rifling through the Marshal’s personal files, intercepting PPDC messages and relaying the contents back to his masters. Did it work like a constant feed or something? Was everything Matsuoka saw recorded for later replay in the Anteverse? _Shit_ , had they seen—

Matsuoka had the gall to _laugh_ , a sputtering chuckle working its way out of his throat as he doubled over on his side, huffing, “ _Fuck_ Nanase—I could’ve been spilling vital military secrets to the Precursors this whole time, and you’re worried I might have told them _you suck at handjobs_?” He twisted his neck just enough to be able to look up and leer, the first truly _Matsuoka_ expression Haruka had seen from him in nearly twenty-four hours. “No, lucky for you…I can pick and choose what I share. _Haru_.”

Haruka frowned at the insinuation, wanting to protest that he was _not_ bad at handjobs—he didn’t think, at least; he hadn’t exactly had a lot of practice, but he _had_ been distracted by the emotions leaking off of Matsuoka, and perhaps if they tried again… He wisely kept his mouth shut, though, instead following another line of curious thought down a rabbit trail: “…You sound…so human, though.”

Matsuoka snorted softly, the cocky leer fading away to be replaced once more by a bitter smile of acceptance. “Wouldn’t exactly be a good spy if I didn’t, would I?” He shrugged. “And I am, kind of.” He pursed his lips. “I mean…you saw…”

The child, screaming in the darkness, being harvested for blood, bone, any sort of biomaterial that could be siphoned away to be spliced with kaiju DNA to make their perfectly obedient, utterly undetectable shocktroops. It was kind of genius, really: Matsuoka was smart, sly, and sentient. He could learn in a way that the animalistic kaiju that attacked the shores of Pacific nations couldn’t, could reason on a higher level and root out information he didn’t have, all the while keeping a low profile. He’d worked his way into the PPDC—was one of their best and brightest (aside from the taint of going through half-a-dozen Drift partners in as many years), and the whole while he’d been doing nothing more than performing the function he’d been _built_ for: ferreting out the PPDC’s weak points, feeding information to his masters and preparing for an invasion that he and a billion others exactly like himself would be leading from the front lines.

If Haruka hadn’t been on the side who’d eventually have to face him down or be crushed under his boot, he might have admired the ingenuity—and maybe, on some sick level, the K-scientists and their ilk would _still_ admire them. Haruka just felt nauseated.

His mind wandered back to the horrific scenes Matsuoka had shown him, and he wondered distantly, detached, who the child had been—had his name really been ‘Matsuoka Rin’? Or had that just been one Matsuoka had taken on? Were there a mother and father out there in the world somewhere who would never know what had become of their son, still clinging to hope that they’d just been separated during one of the kaiju attacks and that they might one day find him?

Or was Matsuoka truly as alone as he’d appeared on his profile?

“You said you protected me, in the Drift.” He didn’t know why this point stuck in his mind, only that Matsuoka hadn’t corrected him when he’d used the term _protected_ before. He bit back the follow-up question of _why_ , deeming it too much to handle just at the moment, and instead pressed, “How?”

They hadn’t gotten to the meat of the conversation yet—why Matsuoka was confessing all of this in the first place, what he hoped to gain, what he wanted Haruka to _do_ in return—but it felt like they were caught in a great whirlpool, with the Big Questions waiting in the middle while they swirled around in the outer eddies toward an inevitable end. They would address the _why_ of it all soon enough; he could spare some curiosity as to _how_ for a few moments.

Matsuoka licked his lips and sighed in a loud huff, shifting back upright and pausing in thought—and someone more skeptical might have read this as Matsuoka getting his story straight in his mind, but Haruka knew he was just trying to break it down. He wasn’t a K-scientist, had no interest in Cryptozoology or background in kaiju biology, nor had he received much instruction on how exactly the Drift worked; there was little point in wasting time in classes on the subject if you were never going to experience it, after all.

But Matsuoka was good at explaining things without really _explaining_ them—or maybe it was the Ghost Drift, maybe understanding just leeched into Haruka’s mind from his; either way, even if he couldn’t put much stock in Matsuoka’s words being the truth, he would still rather hear it from his lips than some nameless PPDC personnel member.

“Drifting with the hive mind…” He frowned. “It’s like—you’re trying to get into my house that I share with a lot of roommates. If you rip the door off its hinges and come barging in, then yeah; they’re gonna notice you.” He cocked a tiny grin, “But—if I open the door and _let_ you in, remind you to take off your shoes and not make any noise…then you can sneak past them.”

So, shielding. Or some sort of camouflage—Matsuoka hiding Haruka from the ‘sight’ of his fellow kaiju in the headspace they all shared, very patently something borne of conscious effort…which meant Matsuoka had _wanted_ to hide him. Or to hide the fact that he’d been Drifting with a human at all—but that made little sense, seeing as Matsuoka had Drifted with humans on multiple occasions, except…

“Then—Drifter Bends?”

Matsuoka snorted incredulously, waving him off. “Load of shit the NBOs cooked up to explain why I sent all my Drift partners to the med bay.” He played the incident off lightly on the surface, but Haruka could feel the tension of their Thread, stiff as a violin string, and Matsuoka’s expression lost some of its luster. “Human brains can’t handle the neural load of being connected to the kaiju hive mind—I mean, the first human who tried to pilot a Jaeger alone nearly died from it; think about being hooked up to _thousands_ of Jaegers all at once, having to bear that strain.” He flicked his gaze away, staring out across the room at nothing. “…It’s just how it is.”

There it was—those words again, steeped in resignation and self-loathing, concepts so utterly human than Haruka had to keep reminding himself that Matsuoka _wasn’t_. He looked like a human, he spoke like human, he _felt_ like a human—on every level—but now he was starting to recognize that thrumming undercurrent of _other_ that made Haruka want to give him a wide berth, like there was something not quite _right_ about him. He’d always assumed it was just…how had Makoto put it—intimacy issues? That he had problems letting people get close to him, that if they didn’t understand him on some innate level, then they were dangerous.

Maybe he’d been right. “…Then what about me?”

Matsuoka froze for a moment—then closed his eyes and allowed a fond grin to work its way onto his lips. “No, you…I didn’t see coming.” He glanced over to lock eyes with Haruka, tapping his temple. “You’re an empath—you’ve had to cope with mental waves crashing against you, wearing you down, all your life. So I guess you’re better equipped than most to handle being exposed to the hive mind.” The grin went crooked and sharp, then, as he added, “You are, quite literally, the only person who can Drift with me and survive mentally intact. Congrats.” Haruka didn’t feel very lucky.

But something wasn’t quite making sense. “But—the open-water event…?” That certainly hadn’t seemed like Haruka ‘handling’ Drifting with Matsuoka; in fact, it had felt like ten steps back, a glimpse into the agony that Matsuoka’s previous partners had experienced. It hadn’t helped, too, that Matsuoka himself had seemed frantic and panicked, worried that Haruka was suffering a similar fate. If he was supposed to be immune to…whatever Drifter Bends really were…then why had he nearly collapsed in the field?

Matsuoka’s frown turned pensive, and his brows drew together. “…That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered, drawing one knee to his chest and resting his arms atop it. “Just—it’s harder to block you from their sight on this side of the Breach. Or, well, when we’re on the _same_ side as them—whenever the connection is stronger, clearer. Like flipping on a lightswitch; I can try and hide you, but they’ll still catch a glimpse of you, know that something’s up.” He flicked a glance up furtively, and a ripple of shame echoed across the connection. “…Plus, the connection strengthens both ways; they get a stronger dose of you, and you get a stronger dose of them. Your head—” He jerked his chin in Haruka’s direction. “It felt like—there was too much information inside, right? Like a data overload?” Haruka offered him a hesitant nod; he hadn’t mentioned the experience to anyone yet—not even Makoto—and while it would have been obvious to anyone looking on that he’d been in agony, the _reason_ for the pain wouldn’t, which meant Matsuoka knew what he was talking about. “You’re not used to being exposed to the raw hive mind; I told you, didn’t I?” He settled back against the wall, glancing up at the ceiling. “It’s dangerous, Drifting with me.”

It wasn’t as if Haruka had had much choice, though, and up until the earlier incident with the kaiju crossing over through the Breach, he hadn’t seen it as all that terribly dangerous since those first few disastrous Drift attempts. They were never going to be in the running for best Drift team there ever was…but they hadn’t been bad, had actually _worked_ , when they set aside any personal irritations or competition and focused on the mission. When pouring their efforts into reaching a mutual goal…they had been _good_ together.

Or more likely, that had just been what Matsuoka had been programmed to be, he reminded himself; he hated how bitter it sounded even inside his own _head_. “So…we can’t Drift anymore,” he mused aloud.

The silence that followed before Matsuoka offered a wary, “…No…” was murky and muddled with hesitation, before Matsuoka caught himself and explained, “They have your scent now, I guess you could say—they’ll sniff you out the moment we make the Bridge. And then they’ll come looking for you, to eliminate the intruder.”

_Intruder_ —the voice echoed through Haruka’s skull, bouncing around in a hundred different tones and raspy voices, and he felt a sick shudder ripple down his spine. He shook his head and dropped his shoulders, massaging his temples futilely and reaching out along the Thread for the reassurance he now craved like a drug, pulling Matsuoka close and trying to lose himself in the loops and kinks that Matsuoka had cocooned him in before. He could feel Matsuoka feeding the link out, though, giving and giving and giving of himself, and flicked a glance up, brows furrowing. His pulling on the Thread had been unconscious; Matsuoka offering it had not.

Matsuoka’s expression tightened with something inexplicable, but Haruka could sense it hot and burning—shame, embarrassment. “That’s…different. I told you before—Drifting in a Jaeger is a pale imitation of…” He tugged on his side. “This.”

“You did…” Haruka allowed mutely. “But you never really explained why.” He wondered if he _couldn’t_ at the time—if doing so would have compromised his ‘mission’, as it were.

From the way Matsuoka refused to meet his eyes, he suspected that had indeed been the reason. “The hive mind—it’s overwhelming, a thousand minds pushing at once to try and take in any new entity it meets—incorporate or eliminate.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “And…then there’s you, with your empathy, accepting and reaching out, getting lost in any emotions you come in contact with.” He twisted a finger, like wrapping a thread around it. “So we got all tangled up in one another, I guess. Me pushing, you pulling, until even outside of the Drift…” He glanced over, and something glowed in his gaze, like the eyeshine from an animal. “…We’re still connected.” He gave a sharp tug on their Thread—painful—and Haruka gasped and toppled forward, barely catching himself before flopping forward on the mattress. Matsuoka snorted derisively and released his grip on the connection, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing out into the room again, silent.

Here Haruka was again, faced with two different Matsuokas; the one that seemed small and trapped by what he was, almost desperate to cling to the facade he’d played up in the weeks past—and this Matsuoka, the one that was all sharp, glittering smiles and cold, haughty sneers, one he could easily believe had Kaiju Blue running through his veins. The discrepancy irritated like nothing else, and it was impossible to tell which was the real Matsuoka—or if there was even any such thing.

Maybe _both_ were masks, elaborate programs fed into an empty brain housed in a cloned body and shipped off through the Breach to do what every kaiju was built to do: wipe out humanity.

And that was what he needed to remember; regardless of how much of Matsuoka had been real and how much a beautiful lie, there was only one thing that mattered. “You’re a spy.” He wished he could have spat it out, wished his facial muscles worked to curl his lip up into a sneer or that he could grit his teeth and growl like the Marshal had.

Matsuoka clearly wouldn't take him seriously otherwise. “I had a mission; this was what I was _built_ for.” He squared his jaw, reminding, “I never lied to you. And besides—you’re not exactly pure and innocent yourself.”

Haruka narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Am I worse for having a mission and succeeding, even if that mission ran counter to the PPDC’s—or are you, for having a mission in line with theirs and _failing_ at it?”

He felt the blood leave his face in confused shock, color rising in offense. “I did _no_ such—”

“I never lied, not outright—but _you_ did. Not to me—but to the others.” Haruka tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. “All of those stupid ‘Drift therapy’ sessions, and not once did you ever tell Tachibana about all the shit you put up with for me. Or even about the Ghost Drift _period_. I know you didn’t, because like hell they would’ve let us just wander the halls freely if they’d realized our potential. You never told them about anything you felt in the Drift either—the memories, how it felt like something was watching you, the information overload from being exposed earlier today.” Matsuoka’s strength seemed to leave him as he ran out of steam. “…You could have— _should have_ —mentioned it to the Marshal—or even your Psych Analyst. But you never did.”

And it was true, all of it. He’d time and time again been met with moments where he could have acted—where he’d known that he _ought_ to, had opened his mouth to speak and then fallen silent at the last moment. And for what? He’d had his chance to, if nothing else, finally be a hero, to ferret out a traitor in their midst, because he’d _known_ deep down that something was wrong, that what he felt wasn’t normal. He could have finally done something worthwhile in his time here, and their certainly hadn’t been any love lost between himself and Matsuoka…so why hadn’t he spoken up? Why had he clung to the notion that it would be violating the trust between them—when there had never been _any_ of that? He’d known that Matsuoka was hiding something—and ignored it. Turned a blind eye. And _now_ look at the mess he’d brought down upon them all.

He shoved these thoughts to the back of his mind, letting the bitterness fester to be dealt with later. They’d dawdled long enough, and they needed to face the only question that really mattered with all of the cards on the table as they were: “…So what now? Why are you telling me this?” If Matsuoka said something smarmy like _Because you asked_ , he was going to put him in a sleeper hold and find the nearest Strike Trooper.

The nervous Matsuoka was back now, expression guarded, and after a moment’s hesitation, he explained, “…Because we can’t Drift anymore. They’ll recognize you—smell you on me, and come for you in the Drift as soon as the Handshake is initiated.” He frowned to himself. “You’re marked, and I can’t shield you anymore. There was no point in hiding.”

“I told you I never wanted—" He started, then cut himself off; not being able to Drift with Matsuoka anymore was for the best, kaiju or no. Maybe now he’d be able to slough off these irritating habits he’d leeched from Matsuoka. “So—what, then? A warning? Are you trying to convince me you’re _turning_?” He was getting better at sounding betrayed and incredulous; it did wonders to disguise the flare of hope in his voice. “ _What do you want?_ ”

He felt the answer echo across their link before Matsuoka voiced it: “Freedom.”

Emotion and expression fled his face, his features blank as he let the words wash over him, feeling genuine and desperate but with the ever-present undercurrent of Matsuoka’s voice in the back of his consciousness reminding _You can lie in the Drift._ He had to stop this vain hope that kept cropping up like a weed infestation, had to approach this tactically, with a measure of skepticism. He had to be a soldier for once—had to treat this like a battlefield, because he’d long since lost the luxury of being able to cloister himself away in the Kwoon room. His actions and responses here could affect the lives of millions, which meant he had to set aside any feelings for Matsuoka the Pilot and steel himself against the potential machinations of Matsuoka the Kaiju.

“…That’s a rather human concept.”

He felt Matsuoka snarl some retort hotly in his mind, mirrored in the frustrated curl of his lip, but nothing more—and when he spoke again, his tone was measured and even. “That’s because I’m tainted with human emotions now.” Haruka’s incredulity must have shown on his face, for Matsuoka continued with more desperation in his voice, “I’m not _supposed_ to Drift with humans! Your emotions aren’t something I’m supposed to be exposed to—not something _kaiju_ are supposed to be exposed to. We have our orders, instincts and missions programmed into animalistic minds, little more; that’s how we stay pure. _Focused_.” He closed his eyes. “But then you were _you_ , and I was able to Drift with you when I shouldn’t have been able to, and it’s different now, it’s poisoning me, and I have to—to _deal_ with things like shame and regret and _guilt_.” He shook his head, bringing hands to his flushed cheeks, and took a deep breath. “…If I rejoin with the hive mind now…they’ll know. They’ll know that you’ve infected me.” His lips formed a thin white line, and he muttered miserably. “…And then they’ll wipe us out.”

“…’Us’? The Shatterdome?” Was Matsuoka little more than a ticking time bomb now?

Matsuoka shook his head in frustration. “…The Kaiju. They’ll wipe out their entire army rather than risk me compromising the others.” He chuckled darkly. “It’d be easy enough for them to rebuild and start from scratch, after all.” Of course—the hive mind. Anything Matsuoka learned, for better or worse, would gradually infect the other kaiju, and if humanity really was getting the best of Matsuoka...it likely wouldn't end well for the others.

But still, if Matsuoka was supposed to be the Shocktroops of the Precursors' invasion—there was little guarantee this wasn't all part of some grand plan. "How am I supposed to know this isn't another lie?"

Matsuoka's eyes were dark, pupils wide, and he reminded silkily, "...I could _make_ you believe." And maybe he could; or maybe Haruka could shake it off this time—he'd learned long ago how to differentiate his own thoughts from others', and Matsuoka's mind control—or whatever it was—was just an amped up version of the thoughts and emotions that flowed through him every day. Well prepared and expecting it, he was confident he'd be able to put up a fight. And Matsuoka probably knew that. "You don't know. You don't know that anything I've ever told you or showed you isn't a lie. You don't even know if I was telling the truth when I told you that you can lie in the Drift—" He squared his shoulders, lifting up onto his knees. "But you _do_  know you're the first person I've ever Drifted with, you know the things that scare me shitless, you _know_...that even if I don't give two shits about this Shatterdome, or Japan, or the rest of the human race...that I care about _you_."

Haruka regarded him for a long moment, glad for the dim light, as it meant Matsuoka couldn't read his expression. "...So you're siding with the humans now?"

"No," Matsuoka replied, voice firm with honesty. "I'm siding with you."

And for the first time in their conversation, there was no hint of artifice or fakery, no masks or makeup to give Haruka cause to question if this was _the real Matsuoka_. He'd pledged before to show Haruka a sight he'd never seen before—and he'd made good on it, in the worst way possible. It was now Haruka's turn to hold up his side of the bargain.

“...Then we need to see Makoto.”


	10. Chapter 10

The lights lining the halls of the Shatterdome were still dimmed, a vain attempt to reflect the early-morning light outside the concrete and steel walls they found themselves cocooned within. Too much time spent underground tended to wreak havoc on one’s circadian rhythms, and Haruka supposed this was part of the efforts to keep everyone on a proper schedule. He doubted it was working.

They passed through the halls unaccosted, though, it being too early for most of the recruits to be up and about and too late for the night staff to be on patrol. Matsuoka hadn’t said a word since they’d left their quarters, which was strange, but understandable. Haruka didn’t feel up to fielding any inane banter just now, and Matsuoka thankfully seemed in no mood to offer it.

He was grateful to have a mission, now—a distraction. It kept him from stalling long enough to actually reflect on what Matsuoka had just revealed, what it _meant_ about all of their interactions thus far, and stopped him from debating for the hundredth time as to whether to not he actually _believed_ Matsuoka. He couldn’t afford those doubts now; he stood to lose remarkably little (at least, no more than was already in limbo) if his trust turned out to be misplaced, but if he failed to act and Matsuoka _was_ telling the truth…well, he didn’t want to start cataloguing a list of what he would miss sorely.

Besides, Makoto was good at reading people; he’d be able to look through Matsuoka with that same gaze that seemed gentle and understanding to most onlookers but was in actuality quite shrewd and calculating. Makoto always knew what to say, when to say it, and how to say it to ensure that Haruka did as Makoto thought he ought to, and it spoke to how much trust Haruka placed in him that he made no effort to change this.

Makoto would know how to handle this—how to handle _Matsuoka_ —and there would be time enough later to dwell on dark thoughts like _but what if he decides that Matsuoka’s too dangerous?_

They drew to a stop, Matsuoka keeping a healthy distance, before Makoto’s room, located in a wing of single-room units largely allocated to non-combat personnel. He flicked a glance over to the ‘TACHIBANA’ engraved in blocky kanji on the nameplate by the jamb—before reaching forward and rapping loudly on the thick steel door.

At length, a bleary-eyed Makoto finally hauled his door open, wincing at what must have seemed like bright light to someone who’d just woken up. “…Haru?” His voice was raspy with sleep, and he blinked several times as if unsure that he was really seeing who he thought he was. “What’re you…” He glanced at the sportswatch on his wrist. “…It’s barely 4 in the morning…”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He probably didn’t sound sorry, but that was because he wasn’t, not really. Makoto would forgive him, because Makoto always forgave him. Sleep could wait; Matsuoka couldn’t. “It’s…urgent.”

Makoto’s demeanor changed in an instant, all exhaustion fleeing his features as he stood a big straighter, his grip on the door clenching and gaze flicking back and forth between Haruka and Matsuoka. “…Should I get dressed?”

Haruka paused; they would need time to persuade Makoto to help them, to be on _their side_ when they inevitably were forced to confront the Marshal next, but there was no need to put him on edge right off the bat, so he shook his head, barely perceptibly. “…No need. Not yet, at least. We just need to talk. Now.” He could feel Matsuoka watching them warily while trying to appear disaffected, and the sooner they got behind closed doors, the better.

Makoto stole a glance to Matsuoka—then back again, before pursing his lips and nodding, stepping back to invite them inside. “It’s kind of a mess…” he apologized. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” ‘A mess’ was overstating the state of the little apartment; it was no more cluttered than the average quarters of a low-level PPDC officer, though rather cramped and humble compared to Haruka and Matsuoka’s. Still, Makoto made a show of inviting them to sit in the chairs at the little dining table as he dropped dirty plates and cups and silverware let out from nights up late doing research into the sink, running water over them to let them soak.

Haruka took the proffered seat—but Matsuoka held back, arms crossed over his chest and slouching against one of the concrete walls opposite the rumpled remains of Makoto’s bed. Haruka felt a twinge of guilt for rousing Makoto from his sleep with news he would likely not find encouraging, but it couldn’t be helped, and the soft smile of reassurance that Makoto offered him as he pressed a button on the percolator before taking a seat across from Haruka made him feel marginally better.

Makoto drummed fingers rhythmically across the table, the only sounds in the room the soft burbling of the coffee maker, but he was the first to break the silence: “…So, you wanted to talk?”

Haruka ducked a nod. “…About…about yesterday.”

Makoto straightened a bit, opening his mouth before rethinking. “…You’re sure we shouldn’t do this later, in the lab? Or in my office? If it’s something the Marshal should here, then we should just go straight to—”

“I haven’t—” Haruka began, interrupted sharply, before quailing and reaching out blindly into the ether for the Thread, gratefully accepting how it helped ground him, like a lifeline, despite the sick understanding of what was attached to the other end now. It was tight and tense, though, like Matsuoka was loath to give it up. “…I haven’t been entirely truthful. In the Drift Therapy sessions I’ve had with you.”

A ripple of concern billowed across the table, washing over Haruka like a cool wave of fog as Makoto’s brows drew together—not with distrust, only a bit of confusion and worry. “How so?”

Haruka faltered here, releasing the Thread when he realized it was doing no good, little more than an intangible pacifier without Matsuoka on the other end offering him support through it. The walls were up again, and Haruka could neither scale them nor charge through them. He was on his own in a foreign wasteland—and it was impossible to tell if he was supposed to protect the fortress at his back, or destroy it.

He really ought to have gone through this conversation in his head before barging in; he’d known Makoto most of his life, should have been able to reasonably predict how he would react, but he’d come in unprepared, and now he was sitting here, waiting for Makoto’s coffeemaker to beep its completion, with no plan of attack. Makoto was supposed to be the easiest person in the world for Haruka to talk to—but mostly because he never _needed_ to talk, because Makoto did all the talking for him, understood him on a level he barely understood himself. If Makoto couldn’t answer _How so?_ himself—and how on earth could he?—then where was Haruka to start?

But then a presence came up behind him, standing strong and solid just at his back. “What Nanase is doing a piss-poor job of explaining…is that you’ve had a spy in the Shatterdome for the past several weeks now.”

Haruka kept his eyes fixed on the fine wood grain of the table, not missing the way Makoto’s fingers stopped their distracting drumming and instead clenched into white-knuckled fists. “What are…” he started, before changing to, “…Who?” There was a soft hitch in his voice, and the confusion and concern from before began to shift, ever so subtly, to a darker suspicion.

Perhaps Matsuoka sensed this as well, for he wasted no breath in shouldering the blame: “Me.” And then he slipped away again, settling back against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest as he handed the reins back to Haruka.

Haruka had been to a zoo once before—a tiny little decrepit thing in Yonago that his parents had dragged him to on a family vacation. He didn’t recall much beyond the animals crammed into tiny cages or filthy paddocks—except that they all felt so…simple. The emotions the exuded were not the complicated mishmash that made humans what they were, but more primal instincts, single-minded and focused and all the less overwhelming for it.

Matsuoka reminded him of those animals now, trapped and huddled in corners. If the room and been a bit bigger, he’d probably be pacing right now, making a circuit despite knowing there was no escape, simply in an effort to keep his muscles warm. And animals could be dangerous when cornered.

Makoto inhaled sharply, glancing over at Haruka for confirmation, and Haruka offered a subtle nod. “…He’s not human.”

“Not…” Makoto repeated stupidly, glancing back and forth between Haruka and Matsuoka.

“He’s a kaiju.”

There was a soft scrape as Makoto pushed his chair back an inch reflexively, arms braced against the edge of the table and back stiff and straight. “I—a what?” Haruka didn’t respond, knowing Makoto hadn’t misheard and waiting impatiently for him to finish freaking out.

Makoto stood abruptly, taking several measured paces back—and then glanced nervously at the door, clearly torn about whether to flee and leave Haruka to Matsuoka’s ravages or to try and take Matsuoka on himself.

Behind them, Matsuoka snorted derisively. “Go on,” he offered sharply. “Call in a squadron of Striketroopers. I’m _clearly_ about to sprout horns and a tail and go on a rampage through the streets of Tokyo.” Haruka could hear the curl of a sneer in his voice. “Pull yourself together, I’m not _that_ kind of kaiju.” A shrug. “Kind of.”

Makoto’s air of concern and suspicion instantly gave way to a hot spike of irritation, and even in the dim light of the apartment’s living area, Haruka could see the flush of shame heating his face. “I’m—just, I didn’t think it was the _best_ idea, assuming…” He relaxed a hair, raking a gaze over Matsuoka’s body in a visible attempt to determine if he was simply the butt of an elaborate prank. “…What does he mean, ‘kind of’?” He directed his question to Haruka, cocking his head and cinching his brows in thought. “Genetic engineering?”

He could feel some of the tension leave Matsuoka under Makoto’s examination—or perhaps he’d just worn himself out with the forced display of bravado just now. “Something like that,” Haruka muttered by way of response.

Makoto seemed to slip into his role as a scientist and recovered one of the steps he’d taken back, trying to see Matsuoka in a new light; Haruka didn’t envy Matsuoka just now, who likely felt like a bug under glass. “…By humans?”

Haruka met his gaze—and shook his head slowly, feeling another roiling wave of foreboding fear roll off of Makoto, sickeningly familiar and calling to mind the chill of dew-laden grass under bare feet and the tight clench of fingers about his wrist as soft mourning wails filled the air. He wished for a wild moment that they shared a Thread too, wondering if he could reach out and offer the same comfort with touch as he could with Matsuoka.

But Makoto reined in his fear, tamping it expertly into a ball and burying it deep where he likely thought none could see it—though a thread of it still tainted his voice when he asked, “Then…then—is he here to…?”

Haruka hesitated—unsure of what to say, because, in truth, he didn’t know. As Matsuoka said, it seemed ridiculous to think he posed an immediate threat to the Shatterdome, for if he’d wanted to destroy the facility, he’d had more than ample time to do so on any number of occasions. Hell, he’d been in the Conn Pod of a Jaeger that, while only outfitted with light artillery, could definitely have destroyed their military escort, including the Marshal of the main Shatterdome defending Japan.

But just because Matsuoka wasn’t hundreds of meters tall or spitting acid didn’t mean he wasn’t still dangerous in his own way; Haruka had known that before he had so much as an _inkling_ that Matsuoka wasn’t as human as he seemed at first blush.

He chose a diplomatic, “No, he’s…he won’t hurt us. I don’t think.”

Matsuoka’s offense flared hotly along the Thread, and his voice was sharp with irritation, “I’m _right here_ , you know!”

Haruka twisted around, meeting him with equal venom, “Then _speak up_.” Matsuoka tended to be too vague and cagey in his explanations, operating far less openly and with more subterfuge than Haruka could stomach—which, he supposed, fit Matsuoka’s supposed ‘programming’. But now was not the time for that; now was the time to be straightforward and to lay everything out on the table, and much as Haruka _hated_ being forced into that position himself, if Matsuoka wouldn’t do it, then he would have to rise to the occasion.

Makoto ignored their sniping but did at least address Matsuoka now. “So…you’ve—what, switched sides, then? Or…?” He clearly didn’t know what to make of this—but then, neither did Haruka, so the feeling was understandable.

Matsuoka clenched his jaw, but he could hardly ignore Makoto now after complaining about being left out of the conversation, and pride eventually forced from him, “…I had a mission. Now I’ve deviated from it.” He very carefully avoided using any phrases that Makoto seemed to want to put in his mouth, and Haruka silently recalled Matsuoka’s reminder that he wasn’t on anyone’s side except Haruka’s—whatever that meant.

Makoto seemed to accept that he wasn’t going to get straight answers from Matsuoka and turned his attention back to Haruka, expression closed and distant but still radiating all of the emotion he was trying to keep from displaying openly. Haruka averted his gaze; somehow, Makoto’s disappointment at the apparent betrayal unsettled him more than anything Makoto had revealed in the past 12 hours. “…You never…said _anything_ , Haru-chan.” He winced inwardly, fighting to keep a stony exterior, and when he felt a tiny tendril of support working its way over the thread, he shoved it away violently; he didn’t want Matsuoka’s pity. “Just…all this time, I told you you could tell me anything, and…” Makoto’s voice had started to rise with irritation and confusion, but he caught himself, settling back and rubbing the back of his neck, mumbling to himself, “…Though I guess you didn’t really know either.”

Haruka’s mouth was open before he could keep himself from admitting, “I—didn’t know, no, but…I felt things.” He kept his gaze down and clenched his hands, knuckles white with self-loathing. “Things…I should have told you about.”

Makoto’s confusion was building again like a rising tide. “Then…why didn’t…?” And after a beat of silence, as Haruka struggled with how to express himself, irritated that Makoto didn’t just _understand_ like he always did, a sharp gasp from across the table forced him to look up. He watched as Makoto’s gaze fixed on his neck, fingers coming up to massage pointedly at the angle where neck blended into shoulder—and Haruka realized what must have drawn his eye, quickly pulling his windbreaker closer and popping the collar up to hide the bright welt Matsuoka had left the night before. He’d very nearly forgotten their…liaison, in the wake of everything else.

When Makoto spoke again, his voice was steadier and just a touch cooler—no, Haruka reminded himself with some effort, merely more _professional_. “…You said you deviated from your mission.” He directed his voice and his gaze to Matsuoka, keeping his expression even. “What does that mean?”

He wondered if Matsuoka could even respond—in truth, the man seemed just as lost about where he’d wound up, how far he’d wandered from the path he’d apparently been programmed to take, as Haruka, and the long stretch of silence that, for once, wasn’t because Matsuoka was being a contrary asshole supported this notion. Haruka spared him the trouble by answering with the only thing could be reasonably sure of: “It means he needs help.” He added, after squaring his jaw so as to brook no protest—even though Makoto would never have offered any, “We’re going to save his life.”

Makoto seemed to mull this over for a moment, licking his lips and nodding to himself before leaning over the chair he’d vacated back when he’d been considering fleeing the room. “…I think I’m going to need some coffee first.”

* * *

With two cups of coffee in him and the safety of a table between himself and Matsuoka, it wasn’t long before Makoto slipped into the comfortable role of scientist and peppered Matsuoka with an endless stream of questions in the interest of science rather than wasting time feeling betrayed or doubting the veracity of Matsuoka’s claims. Given the ease and speed with which Matsuoka responded, though, whether or not he was telling the truth was growing into less and less of an issue with each passing moment, as Haruka doubted even the most well-crafted tale could have held up under Makoto’s queries.

Many of the questions touched on the Ghost Drift—he seemed to want to know everything he possibly could about it and didn’t seem bashful at all when Matsuoka insinuated they were all but telepathic by this point, so comfortable where they with the link. If he had anything more to say regarding the evidence of anything physical between Haruka and Matsuoka, he kept his thoughts to himself, focusing instead on what he seemed to see as a rare opportunity indeed.

“So then—when you say _hive mind_ , is it like you’re all just nodes in one big brain? Parts of a whole, with no real individuality?” Being a Psych Analyst, it was little surprise that Makoto seemed fascinated by how Matsuoka’s kaiju side treated the Drift—and how humans responded to it in turn.

Matsuoka rubbed the lip of his coffee mug absently, frowning in thought. “No—no, more like…” He tilted his head back, tipping back in the chair to regard Haruka, who’d gotten up to stretch his legs and now stood in a corner, watching the pair converse. “How’d I put it earlier?”

“Like a big Drift,” Haruka repeated flatly, irked at being drawn into the conversation. He wished sorely that they would finish their little chat so that they could move on to more important matters, like how they were going to break this to the Marshal and convince him to help Matsuoka instead of setting him in front of a firing squad.

“Right—right, yeah—” He turned back to Makoto. “That’s pretty much it; except we’re hooked into it all the time, and we all maintain our individuality.” He shrugged. “As much as a kaiju can appreciate being an individual, I guess.”

Makoto nodded, processing the information. “So then—they don’t know what you’re thinking right now, right?”

Matsuoka hesitated. “…No, I can pick and choose what I share; I don’t think the Precursors realized that when they made me, though. The others wouldn’t have the mental capacity to consider keeping something secret, more animal than sentient, but…well, I don’t suppose I need to tell _you_ how duplicitous humans can be.”

“And for that I think we’re all grateful right now,” Makoto returned lightly, though the edge in his voice was sharp, parrying Matsuoka’s words easily. “So you can cut yourself off from the hive mind—”

“Not cut off—just filter access. And only temporarily. I’m going to eventually have to sync up again, and if there are holes in my contribution…it won’t go unnoticed.” His expression darkened further, as he leaned forward and added. “The Precursors are a conceited bunch, but they aren’t stupid. They don’t think their weapons can be compromised, so maybe they’ve let their guard down, helping me keep off their radar—but sooner or later, they’re going to notice I’m not reporting back the intelligence I’m supposed to. This may come as a shock to you, but they really don’t give a shit about my 100-meter Butterfly time.”

“Which is only passable,” Haruka reminded pointedly.

“Fuck you, Mr. ‘I only swim freestyle.’ What do you know about what counts as a good time swimming Fly?”

“Then it’s fairly urgent? That we find some way to disconnect you from the hive mind entirely?” A nod. “…What would they do, if they found out that you were shirking your duties?”

Matsuoka settled back in his chair, arms crossed, then reached up to scratch the back of his neck in nervous habit. “…I don’t really know. At least, not what they’d do in detail. But this whole hive mind thing only works if everything that goes into the collective is what the Precursors _want_ there—coordinates of vulnerable cities, locations of Shatterdomes without an active Jaeger team defending it, blueprints on new weapons arrays, that kind of thing. If emotions like guilt and second-guessing slip inside…then they may as well just scrap the whole project and start over. You get it?”

Makoto nodded, and the room was silent for a moment. Haruka had tried to keep from dwelling overly long on what the consequences of failure were—maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, maybe Matsuoka would just be cut off from the hive mind preemptively by the precursors, maybe they were worrying for nothing. Or maybe it would be just like the sad fate of every kaiju defeated this side of the Breach: total molecular disruption, exploding in a brilliant toxic flash of blue.

Would he feel it, if they failed? Would Matsuoka be inside his head one moment, then silent as the grave the next? If he reached out for the Thread, would it fall limp at his feet in a frayed, tattered knot? He’d heard horror stories before, about Rangers ruined for duty after losing a Partner in the middle of the Drift, and while he wanted to convince himself the Ghost Drift wasn’t the same, it wasn’t really helping. It would hurt, it would _hurt_ in every way imaginable. That was, it seemed, what happened when you let people get too close to you. Issues with intimacy, indeed.

Makoto’s voice was soft when he spoke again, shaking Haruka from his dark thoughts with gentle reassurance. “…Well, you’re far too valuable a resource to give up, I think, so I say it’s in all our best interests to keep you alive and on this side of the Breach.” He forced a smile, one Haruka had seen him wear a dozen times and had long since stopped believing—but then added with a genuine twinkle in his eye. “…Plus I think Haru-chan kind of likes you, so he’d probably hate to see you go so soon.”

“ _Oi_ ,” Haruka snapped, standing up straight and taking a step forward. He was hardly to the point where he was comfortable enough with their situation to appreciate jokes made at his expense. “Enough. If you’re done interrogating him, we should call out the Marshal. He’s just told you we don’t have much time.”

Matsuoka twisted around, brows pulling together in an uneasy attempt to keep things light, “Easy, Nanase; he wasn’t _interrogating_ me. We were just talking—” And then, because he was Matsuoka and always had to go and say one thing too many, he added with a sly quirk of his brows and narrowed gaze, “Or were you just _jealous_ that Tachibana’s been compromising me?” He slipped out of the chair with far more lithe grace than he ought to, slinking over to Haruka and draping one arm over his shoulder as he leaned in too close. “You know,” he purred, “I never did apologize…” And he poked the welt he’d left on Haruka’s neck for good measure. “I really shouldn’t have done that where others might _see it_.”

Haruka shoved him off with a roll of his shoulder, reminding himself that these petty games were merely Matsuoka’s way of avoiding facing his own impending demise. Still, it didn’t stop them from grating, and he was almost grateful when Makoto cleared his throat pointedly. “…So, I guess we should probably take this to the Marshal, then?”

Haruka stepped forward out of Matsuoka’s loose embrace, busying himself by grabbing the empty mugs of coffee and placing them in Makoto’s small sink to soak. “I haven’t even begun to think about how to break it to him…”

Makoto shrugged, offering with a wry chuckle. “At this hour, I don’t think he’ll take even _good_ news well…” He sighed and reached for his tablet. “I suppose we’ll just have to break it to him quickly and pray he hears us out before throwing us all in a cell.”

Matsuoka crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall again, settling once more into an attitude of apathy regarding his situation. “Some of us should be so lucky just to be thrown into a cell.”

* * *

When Sasabe strode into the briefing room on the deck of the Jaeger bay flanked by two Striketroopers in riot gear with nasty guns gripped tight against their chests, Haruka was on immediate alert, instantly regretting not asking to look over the message before Makoto fired it off back in his quarters. When Makoto jerked his chin subtly in Matsuoka’s direction, Haruka’s heart stopped, eyes flaring wide, and with a sharp _No!_ , he charged forward to block the troops now marching imperiously toward Matsuoka, guns trained with one arm each as they reached out with the other to grip him firmly by the biceps and drag him across the room.

The worst part—was Matsuoka didn’t even fight back, head ducked guiltily and calmly allowing the troops to escort him to the far side of the room, while Makoto had to physically restrain Haruka (not a difficult task at this point, despite Haruka’s superior fighting skills), hissing at him to calm down, that now was not the time to panic, that this was how it had to be and that Haruka _knew_ this. Haruka had turned a shocked gaze on him then, realization dawning that they’d been _betrayed_ , that Makoto had set this up, had tipped off Sasabe—and then he’d started fighting back in earnest

But a hissed _Haru!_ from Matsuoka and the radiating waves of apology and guilt from Makoto had soothed his ruffled feathers, leaving him feeling defeated and broken, because they’d lost their upper hand now. Matsuoka already had guns trained on him, and what could they _possibly_ say now to make things right again?

Sasabe strode forward, stepping calmly into the no man’s land between the Striketroopers with their prisoner and Haruka barely being restrained by Makoto. He reached for a fold-out chair and settled down comfortably, one leg draped over the other, and raised a hand in invitation. “Now, would anyone like to explain to me why I’ve just arrested Matsuoka here as a spy?”

Makoto regarded Haruka warily for a moment—before slowly easing his grip, once convinced that Haruka wasn’t about to try and take on two armed guards in little more than thin pajama pants and a windbreaker. “We’ve…come into some new information.”

“By what means?”

“I’d rather discuss that later, Sir—the information itself is vastly more vital to the safety and security of this facility.” Sasabe regarded him coolly, clearly not appreciating a low-level officer deciding for him what was and wasn’t important information at the moment, but he said nothing to interrupt, so Makoto continued, licking his lips nervously. “Sir—the Precursors, they seem to be…” He faltered, then recovered, delivering the rest in one breath as if worried he wouldn’t be able to get it all out otherwise: “They’re apparently developing human-kaiju crossbreeds, stealing genetic material from our universe to create creatures they can use for infiltration— _espionage_ —purposes.” He flicked a pointed glance at Matsuoka. “…And Matsuoka is one of them.”

The only sign that Sasabe was remotely shocked by this revelation was a momentary flaring of his nostrils as his eyes flickered open wide, but his voice remained measured and even. All the same, it was impossible even for those with no empathic leanings whatsoever to miss the audible tension that vibrated just under the surface. “…That’s a rather strong—and some might say _ludicrous_ —accusation, Tachibana—”

“It’s true,” Haruka rejoined, stepping forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Makoto. He most certainly did not approve of the method Makoto had chosen to break the news, but if they didn't stand together now, this would all be for naught. He didn't like Matsuoka, but he didn't _not_ like him either, and given that he seemed now physically _incapable_ of not believing his story, he had little choice to feel anything less than pity and protectiveness for the man who'd lost so much without even realizing it and was only just beginning to appreciate it. 

Sasabe cocked a brow, practically snarling, "And how the hell would _you_ know?" before realizing to whom he was speaking and thinking better of it—if there were anyone in the facility who could vouch for the veracity of Matsuoka's claims, it was the person who'd been inside his head the past few weeks. Sasabe straightened with an uncomfortable grunt, glancing back and forth between them as if attempting to decide who stood a better chance of being able to answer his questions satisfactorily. "...This guy—" He jerked a thumb behind him to where Matsuoka stood between the two guards. "—is a kaiju? Big nasty-ass monsters, come through the Breach and fuck up cities? _That_ kind of kaiju?" He snorted derisively, then shook his head. "Crossbreeds, like we're fucking _cattle_ to be bred—"

"If the shoe fits," Matsuoka muttered just loudly enough to ensure the group all heard him, and when Sasabe slowly turned to glance over his shoulder, he added. "And you wonder why you're getting your asses handed to you by a superior race—it's because you _babble on_ about stupid shit like this instead of blowing the head off of the threat on your doorstep." Sasabe jerked a nod, and the guard to Matsuoka's right cocked his gun at an angle and slammed the butt into Matsuoka's temple, not knocking him out cold but very much incapacitating him.

Haruka's heart gave a sympathetic lurch, unable to do more than watch, and his shoe sole squeaked on the cool concrete floor as he barely held himself back from charging over, choosing to bite his lip instead. Matsuoka had been an idiot, opening his mouth like that, but all the same, it hurt to see him digging his own grave. Maybe if he had something to ground him, if Haruka could just _touch him_ , he'd calm down and—

Sasabe drew up again, abandoning the chair and shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat as he paced before Matsuoka, studying him. "A kaiju, huh? Human on the outside, with that nasty blue shit running in his veins, something like that?" He turned on his heel, facing Makoto. "So, you've presented us with this information, which—let's give you the benefit of the doubt and say it's true. What the hell does this mean? Are we supposed to kill him outright? Or can we detain him for questioning? He doesn't have any kind of homing beacon shoved up his ass or something, does he? Is he gonna lead more here?" When Makoto failed to immediately respond, clearly quailing under the barrage of questions, Sasabe's face reddened with irritation—before he threw his hands up and muttered largely to himself, "What the hell am I even asking you for? You're a Psych Analyst." He turned and waved to one of the guards—the one who had clocked Matsuoka—and called out, "Go and get me Amakata from the K-Science labs." Then as the guard moved to leave, Sasabe stopped the man with a final, "And get these two idiots out of here, while you're at it."

* * *

Haruka was going to wear a hole in the floor, he suspected, before they were let back into the briefing room—but there was little more he could do. He couldn't _stay still_ , not when he could hear voices arguing on the other side, Sasabe's brusque tones intermingled with Matsuoka's clear, light levity, his facade up once more as he retreated behind the mask for lack of any other alternative. Haruka groped for the Thread, but Matsuoka had let it fall limp to keep Haruka from detecting anything through it, and no matter how Haruka tugged, it never pulled taut. All his life he'd wished to be able to _keep_ from sensing others emotions, but just now he'd have given anything for some sign that Matsuoka hadn't given up, was just biding his time and waiting faithfully.

"Haru-chan, you need to sit down."

Haruka ignored him, pausing in front of the door and trying to stare through it, calling out like he'd tried before in his mind, because maybe at least if Matsuoka understood that he was still here, hadn't abandoned him— _wouldn't_ abandon him—he'd rally and hold strong. _Matsuoka_... _Matsuoka... **Ri**_ —

"I was mostly just kidding before, but...I guess you really do."

Concentration shot, Haruka twisted around, frowning back at Makoto who sat slumped over on a bench, watching him. "...Really do what?"

"Like him. Matsuoka."

His frown deepened with suspicion. "...It's not like that."

"No?" Makoto had the the gall to raise a brow, thinning his lips into an amused line, and Haruka glanced away with a huff, arms crossed over his chest. "Right, right. Just—" Makoto's expression fell, darkening with worry. "...Promise me this isn't about that?"

"...How so?"

Makoto couldn't keep looking at him, it seemed, and looked away out of modesty. "That—you're not letting anything you might feel for him cloud your judgment? I mean, I want to believe him, and I know you do too, but...well, you're the only one who's been inside his head and lived to tell the tale. So—you're really the only one whose judgment we can trust." He licked his lips and took a breath. "And I just wanted to make sure...that we _can_ trust you. That you trust yourself."

Haruka mulled this over for a moment, not entirely sure any reassurances he might be able to offer wouldn't be lies. "He told me...that you could lie in the Drift," he offered at length. "...I think it's the only lie he ever told me." Matsuoka could hide things, he could disguise himself, he could throw up masks and veils and try to convince Haruka that that's who he really was, but in every half lie was a half truth. Matsuoka didn't care about humans—but he _did_ care about Haruka. Whatever he was or wasn't, Haruka trusted that Matsuoka wouldn't hurt him if he could at all avoid it. Haruka just wanted to show him the same courtesy. He settled down beside Makoto on the bench, thighs pressed warm against each other and half leaning on his shoulder, the bicep a comfortable pillow. "...You think Sasabe will hear him out?"

Makoto hedged uneasily, "...I think he'll do what he thinks is best for the war."

Haruka shifted up again, frowning. "...That's hardly comforting," and Makoto laughed softly, shrugging.

"Did you want to be comforted? Or did you want what I really thought?" Haruka supposed he had a point, but he settled to lean back against the wall now, enjoying the chill of the concrete seeping through the thin jacket he wore. "I think he'll do what he thinks is best...but I trust you, and you trust Matsuoka. He can make a compelling argument when he wants, so I guess we'll just have to hope he comes through."

"...And if he doesn't?" 

Makoto shifted forward, glancing down the hallway where two more guards approached, escorting a woman in a labcoat. "Then we'll just have to charge in to his rescue." He waved a hand, standing as the woman approached. "Amakata-sensei, you're looking fine for the early hour."

She spared him a coy smile. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Tachibana. I don't suppose you can tell me anything about why I was roused from my bed without so much as ten minutes to take a shower, can you?"

He fell into step beside her, jerking his head in silent indication for Haruka to follow. "Orders from the Marshal; I believe there's a...ah, _specimen_ he'd like you to inspect."

She stopped in her tracks, fists forming at her sides, and her expression grew dark. "Tachibana—if that man has conned you into helping _set me up with him_ again, I'm afraid—"

"Ma'am," the guard nearest the door interrupted, jerking it open and nodding for her to go inside. When Makoto tried to slip in on her heels, grabbing Haruka's wrist, the guard stopped him with a stern look and tight grip on the rifle in his arm.

Amakata caught the exchange, evaluating the situation for only a moment before pushing the door open wider and beckoning Makoto and Haruka inside. When the guard moved to protest, she fluttered her lashes and instructed silkily, "You're relieved, Sergeant," and then slammed the door behind them.

Makoto quickly ushered Haruka off to the side, keeping them both well out of the way, and Haruka silently rejoiced at visual confirmation that Matsuoka at least didn't appear to have been beaten any further, though he was now sitting on the floor with his hands bound at the wrist behind his back rather than standing as he'd been fifteen minutes earlier, and he didn't glance up at their entrance, leaving Haruka wondering if he even knew they were there.

Amakata strolled forward, now free of her escorts, and wisely kept a wide berth of both Sasabe and Matsuoka with his guard, assessing the situation. "...Am I here to render medical attention to this Ranger?" She brightened, adding, "Or is this your latest attempt to corner me in another desperate bid to be turned down for dinner?" She crossed her arms under her breasts and sighed dramatically. "Flattering as your attentions are, Marshal, there are _reasons_ that fraternization is—"

"I do love our little chats, _Miho_ —" Sasabe interrupted, clearly straining to keep his cool, though Haruka didn't miss the way he was happy to rake a furtive glance over her. "—but you're here in an official capacity."

"I see," she murmured frostily, but this was the end of their off-topic banter, and she regarded Matsuoka once more, with renewed interest. "I suppose there's a reason, then, that you called me and not the on-duty medical officer?"

Sasabe gestured to Makoto and Haruka. "Well, since you saw fit to allow these two back into the room when I gave explicit orders that they _not_ be allowed within fifty feet of my prisoner, perhaps they'd like to do the honors?"

Amakata turned to them, brows raised and not an ounce of remorse for her actions showing on her features. "Gentlemen? I could use a good story to perk me up."

* * *

For what it was worth, Amakata seemed to take Makoto's halting explanation rather well, clearly fascinated with Matsuoka's newly revealed heritage and not the least bit concerned about the implications that an army of his clones was being amassed just on the other side of the Breach. She further saw fit to question Matsuoka directly, giving his file a once-over as she drilled him on all manner of details about his makeup. "I'm going to assume you're physiologically human, then? Or else surely someone somewhere along the way would have noticed that your blood is toxic or that you have two brains..."

Matsuoka squirmed away from the cool stethoscope she pressed to his chest, hissing, "Fuck that's cold," before explaining, "...But yeah, more or less I guess. I wasn't exactly given a full run-down on the splicing process...but I'm pretty sure most of what makes me more kaiju and less human isn't so obvious to the naked eye."

"I'm sure," she agreed primly. "Care to elaborate?" Matsuoka flicked a glance over to Haruka here, and Amakata didn't miss it. "Something your Partner can share with us, perhaps?" 

"Nanase," Sasabe snapped. "Report."

"Thought he was an idiot you wanted out of the room," Matsuoka reminded with curling derision, but Haruka could feel his tension and apprehension clearly, and without waiting for permission, he strode forward the final few paces separating him from Matsuoka, brushing past Amakata and directing the guards to give room with a flash of his eyes. Matsuoka didn't meet his gaze, but he still released that involuntary hiss of relief as the circuit completed when Haruka settled a hand on his shoulder. "...Dammit, Nanase..." he muttered sourly, giving off waves of regret.

"Fascinating..." Amakata whispered in awe, stepping forward hesitantly and marveling at the line where Matsuoka's shoulder melted into Haruka's arm. "It's like some sort of tactile circuit..." She frowned, worried. "...You feed on him?"

"Hell no," Matsuoka snapped in aggravation, and Haruka squeezed his shoulder in reprimand. "It's...just a side effect."

"Of?" Amakata prompted, eyes glittering with hungry interest.

Matsuoka collected himself, though, and returned smartly, "Of what happens when a human Drifts with a kaiju."

She seemed to understand she'd struck a nerve, but this merely prompted her to press all the harder, having found where it _hurt_. "Let's not play coy now, Matsuoka. You're hardly in such a position." She fingered the handsome bruise at his temple, tutting softly. "Marshal, I see you've been practicing your usual delicate touch..."

"He smartmouthed me," Sasabe called from across the room. "So? Are you done yet? Should we kill him? If he's human as he seems, I'm guessing a bullet through the brain ought to do the trick."

Haruka stiffened again at the casual threat of murder, but Matsuoka's voice rang out strong and clear, "I'd refrain from such measures just yet—unless you don't mind causing Nanase here irreparable mental damage and anguish by having his Partner die during the Drift."

Sasabe barked a loud laugh and sauntered over, waving the guards away when they moved to flank him protectively—Matsuoka wasn't exactly in any shape to be much of a threat, after all. "Maybe my boy earlier clocked you a little too hard—" His voice was low and seductive. "—but in case you didn't notice, this isn't a Conn Pod. You've got exactly _zero_ leverage there. Besides—" He sniffed superiorly, casting a lazy glance at Haruka. "I wouldn't care if you were suited up and marching out into Tokyo Bay this very minute—it's not pretty, but we lose pilots in the middle of a Drift all the time. It's traumatic, fucks up their partners for a while, sure, but it's not _lifethreatening_." He leaned forward, almost nose to nose. "Nanase isn't your hostage."

Matsuoka's lips curled into a thin smile. "...Maybe. But my guess is none of the other teams you've lost...have been made up of an empath and a kaiju." And here, Sasabe took a step back, glancing nervously over at Amakata, clearly unsure of what Matsuoka was getting at. "We've got ten times the neural connectivity sitting down as your most seasoned pilots gain in a hundred drops in a Conn Pod."

 _Shit_.

Of course. Of _course_ the stronger bond between them would mean greater risk in forcibly cleaving that bond; close as they were now, with tendrils of one another taking root in their heads like weeds, Matsuoka dying wouldn't be a simple matter of pain and loss, a scar that might heal with time, something he could eventually _get over_ —it would be tearing and ripping and pulling out chunks of his own mental landscape, like ripping out a dandelion from a bed of roses. It would be _messy_ and dangerous and—yes, lifethreatening. Whether he wanted Haruka as a hostage or not, Matsuoka _had him_. 

The guilty thought that Matsuoka might have been _counting_ on this leverage made his stomach turn.

But Matsuoka's fingers fluttered helplessly, wrists tugging against their bindings, which bit into the soft flesh, and the Thread pulled tight and taut once more, Matsuoka's emotions and feelings ringing through clear once more like the dying struggles of a fly caught in a web. Fear and nerves and desperation and apology, but not for betrayal, for _not being able to stop it_ , for welcoming it, consequences be damned. Matsuoka was selfish and prideful, but this was hardly news to Haruka. He'd stupidly thought he could _control_ this, could keep Haruka and their bond a dirty little secret, that they'd never be forced into this position, and so he'd never have to use this as leverage. He could feel Matsuoka _yearning_ , regret and apology bitter consolation.

The fingers of Haruka's free hand fluttered in time with Matsuoka's, barely held back from squatting down and threading together, and Makoto provided blessed distraction from the gesture by rejoining with, "...It's...it's possible he's telling the truth, Sir."

" _What_?"

Makoto stepped forward, wringing his hands before him. "In the early Drift experiments, when we were still trying to calibrate the system to tolerate Ha—Nanase's...unusual patterns, we did notice...an echo."

"...An echo," Sasabe repeated flatly, then his eyes narrowed. "...Are you trying to tell me that _these two_ —" He thrust a finger in Haruka and Matsuoka's direction, "—have been _Ghost Drifting_ for three weeks, and _I wasn't told_?"

"I—we just thought it was a fluke initially," Makoto stammered, "Anomalies like that aren't uncommon, really, and we saw no other such evidence of any stronger Drift than usual..."

Makoto trailed off, and Haruka watched him silently, warily, because wasn't he outright lying now? Haruka had never mentioned how strong the Ghost Drift was, no, but Makoto had been the first to bring it up, had seemed to understand the shifts in Haruka's and Matsuoka's relationship all the same, even commented about their practices in the natatorium.

"Oh this is _marvelous_!" Amakata joined in now, clapping her hands together. "You absolutely mustn't kill him now! Can you _imagine_ what we can glean from such a specimen? He could catapult us _years_ forward in our research in only a matter of hours!"

"Your 'research' is of _substantially_ less importance than my ensuring that this facility stays as secure as it needs to be—and I'm still not entirely convinced that we won't be better off neutralizing the threat before—"

Amakata reached forward and gripped him by the shoulders, giving him a little shake, "A _sentient kaiju_ , Marshal. _Alive and cooperative_ , do you understand what that means? It means _everything_ we ever wanted to know, at our fingertips, and all we have to do is ask." She released him and poked him in the chest. " _Nicely_."

Sasabe rubbed ruefully where she'd poked him, then turned a dour look on Matsuoka. "...All right, then answer me this: _Why_?" He crossed his arms and looked in turn at Haruka and Makoto as well, obviously deeming them equally culpable. "Why confess to all of this now? What leverage could you _possibly_ have that would make me want to offer to so much as _piss_ on you if you were on fire? Because, and let me make this clear—the life of our Fightmaster? I'm afraid it isn't _nearly_ enough." He fixed his gaze on Nanase. "It'd be a damn shame to lose you, you know. But you are _not_ my only responsibility."

Matsuoka took a long, deep breath—then closed his eyes. "...Because I'm infected. And if you help me—then I'll infect the others. The kaiju."

Sasabe cocked his head in suspicion. "...Infected with _what_?"

"Humanity."

There was a long pause, before Sasabe sputtered with laughter, "You— _what_? _Humanity_? That's the biggest load of..." He glanced from Haruka to Makoto, brows sinching together and laughter dying away when he saw no one else was joining in his mirth. "...Is this some kind of a _joke_? What the hell do you mean you're _infected_ with humanity?" He waved a hand in Matsuoka's general direction. "I thought that's what this whole _crossbreed_ schtick was supposed to be claiming."

"Being human and having humanity are two different concepts, Sir," Haruka offered hesitantly. "He's only supposed to _look_ human—not be one."

Sasabe threw his hands up. "So now I gotta sit through a philosophy lesson on what it means to be human? This is ridiculous—"

"When you say 'infect the others'," Amakata interrupted, hope in her voice, "Are you insinuating...?"

"Hive mind," Matsuoka clarified morosely. "How the hell else do you think I've been reporting back to the Anteverse? Skype?"

"Wait wait wait." Sasabe waved a hand. "I don't know what the fuck a _hive mind_ is, but I don't like the sound of it—are you telling me you've been _communicating_ with them? The Precursors? This whole time?"

"What part of _I'm a spy_ wasn't clear to you, Marshal?"

Sasabe looked like he really wished he had a gun of his own in his hands right now to slam into Matsuoka's unbruised temple. "That settles this, he's clearly an immediate security risk. Give me the room—and your gun, Sergeant."

Haruka's grip tightened on Matsuoka's shoulder, and the wave of panic that threatened to rise up and overwhelm him was quickly sucked under again as Matsuoka continued with remarkable calm, "You can kill me now and be rid of me, then start gearing for the next incoming attack—which should be any day now, I expect. Or you can hear me out and be guaranteed a kaiju-free future for..." He cocked his head in thought. "At least a year, I'd say. Before they replenish their stocks."

Sasabe paused, hand held out waiting for the gun, then waved it off, breathing heavily. "...That sounds like the last desperate bid for his life from a man on the executioner's block."

Matsuoka shrugged. "Call my bluff."

Sasabe actually snorted, shaking his head. "They play a lot of poker in the Anteverse?" He crossed his arms over his chest, jerking his chin in challenge. "Elaborate. How can you be 'infected' with something you apparently already _are_ , and what bearing does that have on the frequency of any upcoming attacks?"

Matsuoka shifted in place uncomfortably, and Haruka knelt beside him, easing a finger under the tight bindings he'd been restrained with. "Makoto." He glanced up. "Give me your knife so I can cut him loose."

"Touch those bindings and you'll be in them with him, Soldier." Sasabe directed his next comment to Makoto. "Same goes for you, Tachibana."

"He's not a _threat_ , Marshal," Haruka reminded. "And you clearly have the upper hand." He nodded to the guns the guards held. "If you're going to accept that he's human, then treat him like one."

"Who said I've accepted any such thing?" Sasabe responded darkly, then went on to explain, "And the bindings aren't for my own protection so much as to ensure he can't use anyone _else_ against us."

Haruka drew up again, shoulders back. "You've already made it clear you have bigger issues to worry about than my life, Sir."

Sasabe snorted, then waved him off. "So I have. Fine, cut him loose. It's your funeral." And as a show of good faith, he tossed Haruka his own multiknife, which Haruka caught easily and flipped open to slice away the bindings. Matsuoka rolled his shoulders, making a grand gesture of it all and stretching as if he'd been bound in a straitjacket rather than merely cuffed at the wrists. "So start talking."

Matsuoka brought his hands around to rest in his lap, rubbing absently at the bruised flesh and leaning ever so slightly into Haruka who sat beside him now. "I'm not the only one, you know. They're building an army—a billion more, ready to march in and take care of the stragglers as soon as our brethren have wiped out your major population centers." He squared his jaw, affecting disinterest. "You may think the beasts you know as kaiju are the army—but then you'd be _sorely_ mistaken. They're the brute force; I'm what will be sent through the Breach to clear away the remaining debris." He cocked his head. "You can kill me; but can you kill a billion more of me? Two billion? Three? Because that's what you're gonna have to be prepared to do should you have any remote hope of victory."

Sasabe ran a tongue over his teeth in contemplation. "...Okay, so you've got superior numbers. Maybe we have the firepower to drive you back."

"If you did, you'd have tried it already. You'll be a seige planet, and this isn't the Precursors' first battle of that nature by far."

"So we're fucked."

"You are indeed _very_ fucked." Matsuoka leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and dropped his voice. "So what have you got to lose by giving my suggestion a shot?"

Clearly unhappy with being faced with his own impending defeat, Sasabe allowed, "You don't have a bullet through your brain _yet_."

"Glad we could come to some accord, Marshal." He settled back now, and Haruka felt hope pulse weakly across the thread, his own heartrate rising with it. "We were always meant to _play_ humans, you know; not _be_ them. What use is a supersoldier shocktroop who feels guilt, regret, loss? Or compassion, camaraderie? They have an endless supply of clones—what do they care about 'no man left behind' mottos when they can always make more to replenish their dwindling stocks?"

"And you're insinuating here, I take it, that you feel these things now?" He snorted. "How convenient."

"No," Matsuoka corrected, "How _unintended_." He wiped a hand over his face, then gestured to Amakata. "You seem to understand at least something of what I'm saying, right? You K-Science people have some inkling about the structure of the kaiju neural network, yeah?"

She nodded breathlessly. "It's all very new, very theoretical—but...not without its supporters."

"And presumably some detractors as well—what the hell are you two talking about?"

"The _hive mind_ , Marshal." She seemed to fidget with the tablet in her hand for a moment before rethinking and deciding to just go with a more direct explanation. "We've—we in the K-Science labs, at least—we've suspected for some time that the kaiju were, in some way, able to _learn_ from their battles with our Jaegers, despite being killed. Somehow, they were able to absorb the experience—and pass it on to others, so that each successive kaiju was more prepared than the last. It's like—a collective memory, individual brains themselves part of a single bigger intelligence that learned and evolved even as single nodes were cut away." She gestured to Matsuoka. "I would imagine that the downside to that would be...that anything the master programmers—the Precursors, in this instance—didn't _want_ the collective as a whole to know...would inevitable be disseminated all the same. In other words, what one learns, the others would learn as well, like a drop of poison in a reservoir."

Sasabe mulled this over, then pressed, "So how the hell did _you_ get 'infected', then? Someone sneeze an apology on you or something?"

"Like I _said_ ," Matsuoka ground out, "It wasn't _intended_. Being what I am, modified to interface with the kaiju neural network, means I can handle accessing the hive mind without issue. But you know fully well what happened with the early Jaeger experiments, how human— _real_ human—minds cope with having to bear a neural load they aren't equipped to handle."

"It's in his file," Makoto rejoined, pulling out his own tablet for the Marshal to review. "The neural breakdowns his previous partners experienced were termed 'Drifter Bends' and believed to stem from Drifting too deeply. If Matsuoka's telling the truth—"

"That's a _big_ 'if'."

"—then what those Pilots experienced were actually the consequences of being forcibly interfaced with a far greater neural load than they were prepared to or could have feasibly been expected to handle."

Sasabe gestered to Haruka now. "And Nanase? He seems perfectly fine to me."

Matsuoka bit his lip, clearly trying not to snap and banking his frustration. "That would be _because he's an empath_. He was practically _born_ to Drift with me." He flicked Haruka in the temple, and Haruka shot him a dirty look. "If you people had bothered to train him up, he could _probably_ pilot solo, even."

And this was more than news to Haruka, who tried to follow his logic and failed; just because he could bear the strain of Drifting with Matsuoka—and only succeeding in _that_ endeavor through Matsuoka's own efforts to shield him—didn't mean he could handle the neural load of a Jaeger on his own. And more so, he _definitely_ didn't want to be the guinea pig that Matsuoka seemed to be suggesting he become. But before he could protest this, Sasabe cut in with, "Touching, really, and _good for him_ , but not actually the most immediate issue right now."

"I'm _saying_ that Nanase was unexpected, because I was never supposed to Drift with a human. I was never supposed to be exposed to a human mind long enough to be affected by it. But it happened—and this—" He gestured to himself. "—is me reaping the consequences." When immediate understanding didn't blossom on Sasabe's features, Matsuoka stood up, unsteadily at first, then squared his stance. "The others, the kaiju you've fought this far…they’re smart enough, they can learn—hell, it’s why you’re losing—but they aren’t _sentient_. They reason, but they don’t _feel_ anything driving that reason. And that's all well and good if you just want a big-ass battering ram, but when you want something with true intelligence that can be given a mission and be expected to respond with more capability...that's when you need sentience. And that’s the gap I’m meant to fill—I was given a purpose, and conscience enough to take measures to fulfill that purpose." He paused before clarifying, "...To manipulate others to that end." But if he felt guilt on this point, he managed to tamp it down, for he drew his shoulders back and stood tall. "But humans have the capacity for emotion, which it seems my masters neglected to take into consideration, banking solely on the understanding that it would never come up. So now I'm stuck here, with a mission I've failed to complete, no desire to try again, and no recourse to turn back."

Sasabe shook his head, huffing softly to himself with a smile. "So—you're turning tail, then? Claiming you've grown a heart and have _feelings_ and just can't bring yourself to slaughter a planet?" His tone turned mocking on the end. "Sounds to me like you're just a coward. I'm not too fond of cowards, you know."

Matsuoka stepped forward, grin sharp in its forced friendliness. "Only the human side of me, Marshal." He cocked his head in mock confusion. "What does that say about your race?"

A sneer curled at Sasabe's lip, but he turned on his heel and began pacing. "All right—so what exactly is it you want from us? You say you've got a _wealth_ of knowledge you're willing to share; what is it you want in return? Cottage by the beach? Retirement funds?"

Not rising to the bait for once, Matsuoka framed his demands clearly: "I need you to disconnect me from the hive mind. If I poison the well, as it were, by exposing the others to the humanity I've been infected with, I'll ruin the kaiju herd, and the Precursors will simply issue a kill command. It's encoded in our DNA as a failsafe, and while drastic, they'll be able to recover eventually and build up their stocks again."

"So you're not even giving us an _end_ to this? Just an extension?"

"I'm giving you the chance to _end it yourselves_. Find a way to close the Breach; build a bigger, better Jaeger; engineer some supervirus and send it through to the Anteverse, I _really_ don't care. Just help me, and you'll have a year's reprieve to prepare."

Sasabe massaged his temples, clearly growing weary of this argument. "Whatever, fine—say we agree, do you even have the first clue of how exactly we're supposed to accomplish this? Is there a switch we're just supposed to flick and _voila_ , you're in the clear?"

Matsuoka pursed his lips, shoulders tensing, and Haruka felt that familiar fear starting to lap at their heels again, like the tide rolling in and threatening this time to rise up over their heads. Matsuoka was scared, nervous, and doing his damnedest not to show it. He wanted to reach out and restore the touch that Matsuoka had broken when he'd stood to face the Marshal, but Amakata was eyeing them with clear interest, staying his hand. He suspected that as soon as she saw her chance, she'd swoop in to pepper Matsuoka—or more likely the _both_ of them—with all manner of new questions.

"I doubt it'll be that simple—but it _will_ have to be done in the Drift. I'll need help to shore up the wall in limbo against the others, to block any attempts to access my mind. The kill command is delivered through the neural network, ensuring all kaiju are hit at once, should the need arise. It triggers a chain reaction that starts on the cellular level and is, as I understand it...not a pleasant way to go."

" _Limbo_? Wall—what the hell are these things? Speak so that we can _understand_ —I can't tell what you _mean_ when you say—"

"It means—" Haruka stepped forward, realizing now what Matsuoka was asking of him without actually manning up and _asking_ , "—that he needs someone in the Drift with him, grounding him and lending mental strength to build a block that will keep the hive mind from interfacing with his own." He turned to lock eyes with Matsuoka, lowering his voice to speak directly to him. "...You could have just asked."

A wry smile, and Matsuoka glanced away. "Haven't really had the time to work up to it... Kind of been busy getting my ass kicked."

"Gonna cry about it?" Matsuoka met his eyes with a sharp glance, expression melting into a sad smile when Haruka quirked a brow at him, the closest he could come to an outward expression of support. "Because we really don't have time to deal with your waterworks."

"A Drift..." Makoto interrupted, breaking the awkward tension. "You'll need something shallow, then? Typically Pilots are discouraged from staying in Limbo too long—the risk of getting lost chasing R.A.B.I.T.s is too great, but...I'm guessing you don't expect this to be a problem?"

Matsuoka shook his head, running fingers though his hair. "It's where the hive mind is most...tangible, I guess you could say—ask Nanase, he can vouch for me. It's hard to fight something you can't see, so that's where we'll have to make our stand. If we can hold out there, shore up the wall well enough to seal off the impulses, that _should_ do the trick."

" _Should_?" Sasabe echoed. "You mean you're telling us all this, and you don't even know if it's gonna _work_?"

"I haven't exactly had time to test the theory." Matsuoka's voice carried a tired, defeated edge, and Haruka twisted a finger around their Thread, tugging insistently for attention, which Matsuoka returned with an apologetic smile. "But if we screw up, I'm dead, so I've got plenty of reason to try my best here." Emboldened by Haruka's support here, he turned again to face Sasabe head-on. "Provided this actually works...I'll be in your hands after all is said and done, and you're free to do what you want with me then. Detain me, question me, put me in a Jaeger—"

"Yeah _right_."

"—or send me to the K-science labs."

"Now _that_ sounds more like it. I'm sure we can _easily_ arrange that."

"As a _researcher_ , not an _experiment_ ," Matsuoka ground out. "I'm saying I'll comply—I'll comply _now_ if it's a show of good faith you want, but we don't have all the time in the world, so if there are any dark secrets you'd like revealed, I suggest you pose your questions ASAP, because I'm taking care to filter what I feed back into the collective right now, but the moment my masters get suspicious, they'll put the kill command into effect, and I'm not above admitting that my petty neural defenses won't be enough." He took a breath—then held out a hand. "So do we have a deal?"

Sasabe ignored the outstretched hand for a disturbingly long few moments, silence only broken at length by Amakata striding forward to stand at his shoulder, cocking her head to the side to peer up at him out of the corner of her eye. "There's an old Hindu proverb I'm quite fond of, Marshal. Would you like to hear it? You may take some comfort in the sage advice of the ages." He didn't respond, merely furrowed his brows more deeply. " _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_."

Was he, though? Was Matsuoka a _friend_? Haruka and Makoto were friends, he would readily admit—but what was that founded upon? Understanding, respect, love, caring...these were things that, while he could correlate them with Matsuoka if he really _tried_ , it always wound up twisted and _unnatural_ , nothing like what he felt for Makoto. Matsuoka had even once accused Haruka of being protective of Makoto...and he could objectively admit that yes, he was, he couldn't _help_ it. And now he was feeling a similar drive bubble up with relation to Matsuoka, but again it was _different_ , darker and more possessive, and maybe it was just the Ghost Drift again, those bits of Matsuoka that resonated all together far too _animal_ seeping into Haruka now. It worried him that he didn't entirely dislike the feeling.

Sasabe flicked his gaze around the room, meeting the eyes of them all in turn, before cursing under his breath and slapping Matsuoka's hand away. "I don't clasp hands with kaiju; try me again if we manage to pull this off."

* * *

The LOCCENT team assisting with the Drift was kept as small as safely possible and completely ignorant as to the nature of the mission; as Sasabe instructed them, this was to be nothing more than a routine assessment, a shallow Drift to ensure that their sync ratios hadn't been affected by the recent debacle in Omega Free. "The less people know about what we're attempting, the better," the Marshal had reminded them all, and Haruka wondered distantly if the guards who'd witnessed the early-morning clash wouldn't find themselves with handsome bonuses and an early discharge as incentive not to spread word about Matsuoka's true nature. Regardless of the outcome of the mission, if the Defense Corps higher-ups found out that a Shatterdome Marshal had knowingly sheltered a kaiju within a PPDC facility and failed to report it, there would be hearings at the least...and something much less pleasant at worst. 

There was a staggeringly lot of weight riding on this mission, Haruka was starting to understand, as he watched the techs dart about prepping the pods for the Handshake. His sanity, Matsuoka's _life_ , the very _war_ might hinge on how they fared in the Drift today.

"You've been pretty quiet since we left the briefing room." Matsuoka punctuated his words with the slam of a locker door, twisting around to lean back against the lockers and pulling the long hair feathering his nape back with a leather thong. "...Nothing you want to ask me, then?"

Haruka grunted as he tugged on the familiar wifebeater he wore to the Drivesuit room, running his fingers through his hair to ruffle it back into place. "I didn't figure there was much left to ask. I'll be inside your head shortly anyway."

Matsuoka snorted, allowing a small smile, and rested his head against the lockers. "You know, I was thinking...that I know I must really be human, now."

"How so?"

"...Because I feel like a gigantic dick, asking you to go in there with me to try and save me." He frowned to himself, fidgeting absently with the ties on his pants. "It's my problem, not yours, after all. I mean, I know there's the whole Ghost Drift thing—but if the kill command comes...it'll dissolve naturally, shouldn't hurt." He shrugged. "Just...wanted to give you an out, here at the end. To let you know you don't have to do this—it's gonna hurt like a _bitch_ in there, and you don't have to feel it if you don't want to."

Haruka squared his jaw, swallowing past a lump, and slammed his locker shut, waiting until the echoes died away before speaking again. "...Is that what you expect me to do? To take the out?"

"Huh? No, I just—I thought it was only fair to—"

"Since when have you been fair?" It came out far more bitter than Haruka had intended. "You...are the _least fair_ person I have ever..." He leaned forward against the lockers and closed his eyes, enjoying the chill of the metal against his overheated skin. Much more of this and he was going to have a panic attack, and he needed to calm down before they did this; if he stepped into the Drift and his mind was all over the place thinking about _what could go wrong_ , then—

" _Fuck_ Nanase, don't do this to me, don't—" And then he wasn't just leaning into the lockers, he was being _pressed_ into them, and Matsuoka was sliding a tongue between his lips, shoving and burning and _demanding_ that Haruka return it, which of course he did, because it felt too sweet and bitter not to accept, like saltwater to a weary desert traveler. His fingers scrabbled up to dig into the thin cloth of Matsuoka's t-shirt, pulling him forward and down, like in the Drift—"Haru... _Haru_..." Matsuoka's voice was broken and desperate and breathy, whining like a child, and he wondered in some corner of his mind if these were more human emotions Haruka had given him, for since when had Haruka ever been _whiny_ or _needy_?

He turned his head just to the side to break the kiss, breathing heavily, and muttered through kiss-plumped lips, "Let me breathe, idiot..."

Matsuoka snorted softly, and when he spoke again, he sounded more like himself. "Sorry...just, I didn't want to miss my chance. You know, just in case." Haruka fixed him with a serious gaze, opening his mouth to reprimand him for making such dark jokes, but Matsuoka's expression was somber, stilling the words on his lips. "...You have to promise me."

"...I don't make promises I can't be sure I'll keep."

"Then _keep it_. If I tell you to leave me, if I tell you to _get out_ , you have to do it. They'll be coming for us, so it's either fight, or get steamrolled; and I'm _not_ letting them crush you." He shook Haruka a bit for good measure, and Haruka thinned his lips to express his dissatisfaction.

"...See? You're _never_ fair."

" _Haru_ ," Matsuoka pressed. "Promise me."

Haruka reached up, grabbed him by the shoulders, and gently eased him out of the way as he snatched up his jacket and headed for the door back to the Drivesuit Room. "I promise—that it won't come to that."

" _Idiot_ , that's _not_ what I—ah." They both stopped short at a form blocking the doorway, Matsuoka nearly colliding with the man in his rush to scramble to catch up with Haruka. "...Marshal."

"Matsuoka. Nanase." He nodded to them in turn, then held a hand out behind him in invitation. "They're ready to start the presequence with the Pons units. Matsuoka, I'd like a moment with Nanase. Alone." Matsuoka flashed him a worried glance, but Haruka just nodded, sending him on his way.

Once Matsuoka had rounded the corner and Sasabe was satisfied that they wouldn't be overheard, he crossed his arms and gave Haruka a once-over. "...So you're going to go through with it, then?"

"I thought we'd made that clear. I'm the only one that can, after all."

"Yeah...you are, I guess." He licked his lips and averted his eyes. "...Which is why I thought it only fair...that you understand what you're committing yourself to. Fully." He took a deep breath. "I don't know what you're going to find in this Limbo or wherever it is you two are going to wind up...but I understand that you'll be exposed to this hive mind that connects to the kaiju neural network, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

A nod. "...Then you'll understand...that that is a risk I _cannot_ ask you to take."

"You're not asking. I'm offering."

"Then I'm going to be straight with you—" He fixed his gaze, eyes dark and pained, on Haruka. "If you go in there...I can't promise you it won't be one-way. If you get yourself compromised, or we have reason to believe they've gotten their claws in you..." He shook his head, then took a deep breath. "This isn’t a threat. This _isn’t_ a threat, Nanase, understand that, but—if you go in there, and I think for one second that there’s a chance you’ll be compromised, that you’ll be forced to give up sensitive information that could affect the safety of this facility, of the PPDC, of the Jaeger program...then I won’t hesitate to take care of the problem.” He raised a brow pointedly, ensuring he wasn't misunderstood. "You’re a good soldier, Nanase; and good soldiers are prepared to die if need be.” He clapped Haruka on the shoulder, huffing, "I just thought you deserved to know what you're getting yourself into. No hard feelings."

Haruka let the knowledge sink in, feeling very keenly the sword dangling just above his head now, swinging on a pendulum in time to the clock ticking down the moments until the Precursors realized that their hive mind had been spoiled. His voice, he was surprised to hear, was remarkably calm and flat when he spoke at length. "...I'm bound for ruin either way, Marshal. Either you'll kill me, or the Drift will. It won't make much difference; failure will be failure." And he wasn't going into this primed for failure—this was a mission as much for his own sanity as for Matsuoka's humanity. There was a very simple way out of this: _not to fail_.

Sasabe nodded, then turned on his heel, reminding, "You'll be missed in the Drivesuit Room; report as soon as you've collected yourself." He paused for only a moment before adding, "...Say your goodbyes, if you need to."

 _Goodbyes_.

He supposed he should be used to this by now—every day of this war, inside this facility, there was always the very real chance that they could be wiped off the map. The Jaegers were formidable, but Matsuoka had been right; they were losing, _badly_. So why should now be any different? What good were goodbyes when there was no reassurance they were even necessary? Just pointless worry. Even that kiss of Matsuoka's—he wiped sourly at his lips, suddenly disgusted that he'd let himself give in. A _goodbye kiss_ —that was the _worst_ , because it stank of a lack of trust, Matsuoka already consigning himself to failure, and just like a Jaeger run, Haruka couldn't pull this off alone. He needed to put this right, he needed to—

"Haru-chan."

He drew to a stop before he'd never realized he'd been marching toward the Drivesuit Room, glancing around to find Makoto waiting in the shadows just around a corner. "...Makoto?"

"I—came to see what was taking you; Matsuoka said the Marshal held you back to talk, but your Pons unit's ready now, so..." He swallowed thickly, and the skin under his eyes looked puffy, a thick glaze catching the light. He cleared his throat and added, "You ready, then? For the, uh—the Drift? The mission?" He raised his brows hopefully and tried to smile, but it only made his eyes shine a little brighter, so he stopped trying, and he took a deep, slow breath.

"...Yeah, I'm ready. I was just going now." He took the few steps forward to draw shoulder to shoulder with Makoto, and they walked the last long hallway to the Drivesuit Room together in companionable silence.

Before they crossed the threshold and joined the bustling roar of activity surrounding the Pons units in the room, Makoto stopped short, tugging on the light jacket Haruka had pulled on over his wifebeater. "...We still on for Mackerel Friday?" His voice sounded higher than usual, heavy with emotion, and he wouldn't meet Haruka's eyes anymore, just kept his fingers clenched in the cheap fabric of the jacket. "I—I know I've been busy lately, with Omega Free and all, b—but I think I can carve out a few hours, so we should..." He nodded to himself, voice dying away.

Haruka glanced down at the fingers, trembling as they held on tight, and gently removed them, gently wrapping both hands around Makoto's and reminding with a firm squeeze, "...Of course. But only if I don't have to cook."

Makoto laughed brightly, but it came out sounding more like a bitter sob, and he shoved Haruka away forcefully. "Go on—I'll be over in a moment to make sure you're settled in properly."

Haruka nodded his thanks and jogged over to the Pons unit, stripping off his jacket and ordering his breathing in a final effort to calm himself. It wouldn't help much, but it gave him something to focus on.

"I thought you didn't do that," Matsuoka muttered next to him, applying the last of his EKG patches to himself.

"Do what?" Haruka feigned ignorance, and the frown was audible in Matsuoka's voice.

"Make promises you can't be sure you'll keep."

He tossed the jacket over a chair, waiting for a nearby tech to come over and fit him with sensors. "I didn't. And—" He whipped a hand out and gripped Matsuoka firmly by the neck, tugging sharply and lifting up just a hair on his toes to bridge the distance quickly and quietly. Their lips brushed only for a moment, a flash of heat likely written off by any onlookers as little more than a final whisper of support. "—Don't give me a goodbye kiss. _Ever_. Rin."

Matsuoka stood there, gaping at him stupidly. "So...what was that?"

"A good-luck one."

A LOCCENT tech staff quickly finished applying the sensors, and soon they were being helped into the Pons units. If he'd had less on his mind, Haruka might have noted that this was a fitting end—that they'd come full circle and would be facing the very real likelihood of their deaths in the same place they'd first really _met_. It was a pity they were here, confined in separate little units rather than in the freer support of a Conn Pod, and as the world went pitch black with the pod's shield hissing shut, Haruka reached over to feel the side of the chamber, imagining that Matsuoka was just on the other side of the encasement, doing the same.

He closed his eyes, clearing his mind, and took a final deep breath.

_"Prepare for neural handshake in five—four—three—two—one—"_


	11. Chapter 11

It was different this time.

It was different this time, because Matsuoka was no longer behind him, guiding him forward through the perilous dips and valleys that marred the invisible walkway only he could see—now, he was _beside_ Haruka, walking as an equal. Or perhaps, merely just as lost.

He didn’t remember starting this journey, and even though he could see the landscape passing by, it felt like they were going nowhere. If this was where pilots got caught chasing R.A.B.I.T.s, he could understand it—as there were no landmarks to guide by, and he worried now what might have happened if he’d ignored Matsuoka’s warnings the many times they'd come here and stepped off the path, heading into the nothingness that was the limbo state bridging individuality and the Drift.

One thing that definitely was not different, though, was the presence in the distance, watching and waiting—always alert as if just _hoping_ for them to misstep.

A wind from nowhere whispered about their feet, and Matsuoka’s voice was flat and dead, like there was no echo here to carry it more than just beyond his lips. “…I suppose this isn’t really the best time to admit that I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

Haruka felt a giddy rush of anxiety curl in his belly at the realization they were truly the blind leading the blind. “…I thought you said before—that we need to build a wall…”

Matsuoka’s shoulder brushed against his own, and a hand on his arm brought him to a stop as the wind around them picked up, rushing low and silent across the empty plain into the distance. “I wouldn’t call ‘let’s build a mental wall’ that sound of a plan.” Haruka moved to protest, following Matsuoka’s worried gaze but failing to see anything worth going on guard for, but Matsuoka brought a finger to his lips to instruct silence. “…It feels…heavier.”

“Heavier?” Haruka glanced around, not following. “…What does?”

“Their gaze…” Something glinted in his eyes, a spark that quickly died, and he furrowed his brows. Haruka felt an uncomfortable shudder ripple through him, and could imagine Matsuoka as some wild animal, frightened and cornered with the fur along his back stiff and bristling. The anxiety was catching, too, and Haruka took a step closer to bring himself in to face Matsuoka, no longer comfortable being merely at his side. He was painfully aware of the fact that if they did not stand together here, they would both be torn apart, mentally ripped to shreds to leave their bodies in the real world little more than lifeless husks. "...They know we're here, they just can't find us..."

"I thought—" Haruka started, then licked his lips, aware of how childishly naive on these matters he must sound. He wasn't a K-scientist, he wasn't a Psych Analyst—he was built for soft matted floors and regulated, practiced movements, not... _this_. "Just, I thought you said...they had my scent? That they would recognize me, come for me..."

Matsuoka tensed with animalistic fear, shoulders squaring. "I did. And they will—but they can't find you just yet. Because this isn't the Drift, you aren't _fully_ a part of me just yet, so they know something's here that isn't supposed to be...they just don't know _where_..." He firmed his jaw and swallowed, "But they'll figure it out soon." He snorted softly to himself, "We _want_ them to, after all."

Of course they did; if they didn't have the full weight of the kaiju collective bearing down upon them eventually, they'd never be able to be _sure_ they'd cut Matsuoka off successfully; which meant that at some point, Matsuoka would no longer be there to protect him, _couldn't_ protect him—because that was the _entire point_. Haruka had to be the protector here, had to be the one to step forward and draw Matsuoka behind him, bearing the full brunt of a thousand-thousand minds crashing against his own mental walls and _pray_ that Matsuoka's silent support from the shadows and the strength of whatever this was they'd cultivated between them would be enough to withstand the brutal assault licking at the edges of their consciousnesses.

Matsuoka must have caught the flash of unease on his features, for he turned Haruka to face him straight-on, hands on his shoulders, and gave a soft _Hey_ to direct his gaze to meet his own. "...You know it's still not too late, right? It's _not_ , and I won't think you're a dick for taking the out—I think you're a dick for _other_ reasons, but I wouldn't for this." He forced a smile, but Haruka didn't return it, which was hardly new. "This isn't your fault—it's not like either of us could have expected this to happen, and—"

"But if you could have?" Haruka was wondering aloud before he could stop himself, instinctively glancing away and focusing on the nothingness around them to distract from the way Matsuoka's urging fell off.

"...If I...could have what?"

"Never mind," he muttered, shaking his head, because hypotheticals were of no use here, and even less so those hypotheticals focusing on ridiculously inconsequential things like _Would you have ever wanted these emotions if you'd known I could give them to you?_ These weren't the questions for _right now_ , these were questions that maybe they could ask each other— _maybe_ —later, in the slim chance that they survived whatever was coming for them. Whether or not Haruka would have the strength to ask, though, when not under threat of impending death and trapped in a place where he was barely keeping rein on his thoughts...was another matter entirely. "And I know it's not my fault. That doesn't mean I'm going to leave you, though."

Matsuoka let the matter drop, grin waxing wry. "...Can't live without me _that_ badly, Nanase?" And before Haruka could even _think_ about giving that question serious consideration, Matsuoka continued soberly, sliding his hands up from Haruka's shoulders to grip his head, palms braced just under his ear. "I'm touched you don't want me to die—because I'm not really excited by the idea either; this is one of those human emotions that _sucks_ by the way. It's not just self-preservation, it's...like, I dunno, regret and guilt and _longing_ all mixed together, it's—" He shook his head when his voice threatened to break, recovering. "But—you know what this means, right? You'll have to be the bait, to draw them out, and you _know_ it's gonna hurt like a motherfucker at the very best.” He pursed his lips and swallowed. "And I don't want that. For you."

And Matsuoka didn't seem to _get it_. That this wasn't his decision anymore—that one of them had to step up and bear the pain, because they couldn't protect each other this time, and Matsuoka had already sacrificed so much, whether consciously or otherwise. It was Haruka's turn. "...But will it save you?"

"...I don't kn—" he started, then huffed in irritation. "Maybe. But—"

"Then I'll do it."

Matsuoka gave him a little shake. " _Listen_ to me and stop trying to play the hero—I know it's something you've been _aching_ to do, but even if you go in guns metaphorically blazing, there's still _no guarantee_ that this will work, or that it won't kill _you_ too."

Haruka frowned in confusion, brows drawing together, and he reached up to grip Matsuoka's hands by the wrists to draw them away. "...Why are you hesitating now? Of all times?" They'd discussed this to death already, and he'd assumed that some cold, calculating part of Matsuoka remained that could see this was the choice that stood to gain them the most, if not the one that had the highest chance of succeeding. But he could feel Matsuoka's pulse racing, skin flushed and fingers trembling with nerves. He could feel waves of anxiety and despair mixing into a miasma that threatened to route them from their path, and he pushed back with all of the firm stubbornness he could muster, forcing peace and calm into Matsuoka in a pitiful imitation of Matsuoka's previous attempts to bulldoze Haruka's emotions.

Matsuoka snorted sadly, "Not bad...but you ruin the element of surprise when you try to stare holes through me while you're doing it..." And he flicked Haruka in the middle of the forehead, breaking his concentration. "And...I dunno. It's one thing discussing it with everyone in the briefing room...another when you're standing here, telling me you're gonna jump off a cliff for me." He soothed the point he'd just flicked, cocking his head to the side. "I don't see how I'm worth it."

"You don't have to," Haruka reminded, reaching forward to slap him lightly on one cheek, demanding his full attention now. "...Before, you asked me to pilot for you—and I told you no, that I don't pilot for any one person. I won't swim for you, and I won't pilot for you...but this—this I can do for you. So _let me_." Matsuoka's eyes flickered wide for a moment, before closing, and he reached a hand up to clasp the palm Haruka had raised to slap him with close to his cheek, turning into it and breathing deeply. Haruka froze, unmoving—barely even breathing, as he allowed this, and felt his heart kick nervously in his chest, stomach churning. He still wasn't _used_ to this, being so close to someone, so _needed_ by someone—and Matsuoka was the last person in the world Haruka might have thought he'd find himself here with...but he _was_ here, all the same, and Matsuoka needed him. And he strangely _liked that_. "...Do you think..." He swallowed, forcing the words out, "After, I mean, will we...still have the Ghost Drift?"

It was so much _easier_ explaining things that way, sending emotions and feelings echoing across a thin, red thread like an old can telephone and knowing the other person would hear you loud and clear without you having to speak a word. He _loved_ that, could get _so used_ to that—and would miss it _fiercely_ if they had to relinquish it, because he didn't know if he could deal with Matsuoka without it, and it frightened him. Not knowing if this would be his last chance to fully explain himself, and what he felt. He would never be able to put it into the right words, could barely formulate any thoughts on it even—he just wasn't built that way.

And yet...it somehow felt cowardly, laying this on Matsuoka just now, resorting to the Drift to express feelings he honestly wasn't sure _could_ be expressed. Maybe Matsuoka would be able to make some sense of them, but maybe not, and all the same...it just felt like another goodbye kiss, yet another example of them not trusting one another. And they needed all the trust they could muster just now; so he tamped down the urge to thread their fingers together, to _vibrate_ over that connection everything about how Matsuoka irritated and confused and frustrated and excited and encouraged and comforted. There would be plenty of time for that later. There had to be.

Matsuoka smiled softly into the palm still at his cheek and offered only, "...Dunno. Guess we'll have to wait and see." Another vague, unhelpful comment—and Haruka would have expected no less. He then wove their fingers together and pulled Haruka's hand away from his cheek, giving a supportive squeeze. "...You ready?"

"No," Haruka admitted, taking a few deep breaths. "But I don't expect I ever will be, so we may as well."

Matsuoka nodded firmly. "I told you they can't see you yet—but they can feel you, and smell you, and the moment you step off of this path...they're going to come for you. So we're going to fall."

He drew them a step to the right, and Haruka instinctively froze, wary of stepping off of the path, even with Matsuoka’s blessing. "Fall..."

Another nod. "I'll be with you—and I won't let go. But we still have to take that step." He quirked a smile. "You can close your eyes, if you're scared."

"I'm _not_ sc—" Haruka started hotly, then realized this was Matsuoka, yet again, using barbs to keep others away so as not to get hurt himself. A curiously human self-defense mechanism. "I could say the same for you."

"Maybe I will, then—since I'm in such capable hands." He squeezed again for effect, then locked eyes with Haruka. "...Last chance. Haru."

Haruka thinned his lips in irritation—then leaped feet-first into nothingness, Matsuoka in tow.

* * *

The inky blackness enveloping him carried with it a subtle sense of recognition—he'd _been here_ before. This nothingness in limbo, the danger zone where the kaiju could hunt him, could find him, could rip him apart—this was where he'd fallen that first failed attempt at a Drift with Matsuoka. _This_ was where he'd curled in on himself and felt so _lost_ , where Matsuoka had reached down and saved him, drawing him up to the light again with fear and panic sharp in his voice. Had he been human then? Had that been genuine panic, or...?

 _'It's_ always _been real with you.'_

 __He could look up and see light flickering above, like he was stuck at the bottom of a deep, deep pool, far too deep now to make it back to the surface before his lungs collapsed from lack of oxygen—he would _drown_ down here, a painful, excruciating death, alone and cold and—

 _'You're not drowning, and you're not alone_ — _get ahold of yourself, Nanase, or Tachibana will yank your ass out of here for your own good. And you don't want that, right?'_ No, no he didn't. He didn't want to be here, but more than that, he didn't want to leave, because—oh _shit_ , because he was here with Matsuoka, here to _save_ Matsuoka. Here to save himself. _'Good, there you are. Was worried for a second.'_

Nothing about Limbo made sense, but at least he'd been able to imagine that they were on some real physical plane earlier—here now, with Matsuoka's voice ringing clear in his head when it felt like they were leagues under the sea where the light strained and failed to reach, it was ethereal. Alien. In his younger years, thoughts of the abyssal plains that stretched wide and vast over the ocean's floor had comforted—fantasies of a dark, quiet calm a balm to a child's fears of monsters ravaging the coast. But now it was different, and he knew he needed to reach that light again, because in this darkness lurked monsters; the monsters that had driven Makoto from a Conn Pod years ago, the monsters whose ranks Matsuoka was trying to flee. He needed to protect Matsuoka from those monsters now—protect him, shelter him, and _get away_.

A shadow cut through the flickering light above—and Haruka blinked up, stupidly, wondering if it had just been a trick of the light. But then it came again, dappling the brilliant light, and he thought at first that it might be a sea snake, or perhaps an eel, except it moved too jerkily, seemed to bubble and grow and then taper slender again, like a tentacle covered in boils, slowly sliding serpentine-like down from the world above. The light grew dim as more tendrils snaked down, coalescing into a long, grotesque _arm_ —

And Matsuoka _reached out_ to it. With one hand on Haruka's shoulder, reassuring, he held his other free, like a painting Haruka had once seen—fingers reaching and stretching near to snapping, and Haruka wanted to jerk him back, wanted to tell him _not to_ , that this was dangerous and wrong and _not right_ , but then everything about this was some shade of _off_ , and Matsuoka was the only one he had left down here, the only one who knew what to expect. _'...This is just how it has to be,'_ he reminded Haruka with a fond smile, and Haruka wanted to scream at him to _stop that_ , to stop putting up that stupid fake smile because it might work on Makoto, it might work on the Marshal, but this was _Haruka_ , who'd carved out a space for himself inside Matsuoka's mind, who was here in the bottom of this dark pool _with_ Matsuoka, because he _wanted_ to be here, more than he wanted to _not_ be here.

But he couldn't speak, and he hadn't the mental control to organize and focus his thoughts into speech as Matsuoka seemed capable—so he just unleashed a ripple of burning irritation and impassioned pleading over their Thread, taking some smug pleasure in the chagrined grimace Matsuoka returned, grumbling sourly, _’Easy, easy_ — _can we maybe discuss this later, when I'm not about to bring down the establishment?'_

Haruka relented, giving Matsuoka his space, and watched in awe at the exchange. The black tendril, somehow darker than the water—or whatever he was not drowning in—around them, balked only a moment before allowing itself to make contact with Matsuoka's outstretched fingers, as if probing him, testing him, but upon ascertaining that Matsuoka was of a kind, it quickly wound itself around his wrist, threading and weaving between his fingers. Matsuoka didn't flinch, didn't move a _muscle_ —just closed his eyes and frowned in concentration, and Haruka _felt it_. He _felt_ Matsuoka merging with what he now understood to be the embodiment of the hive mind, the collective branches and tentacles of countless others reaching for him, like recognizing like, to bond and replenish their store of knowledge.

He could feel, through Matsuoka, a wave of emotion being poured into the vast collective, warm at times, cool and sharp at others, dark and light and stinking so fiercely of _human_ that even Haruka could recognize it now—and panicked, because if the Precursors sent the kill command before they'd successfully disengaged Matsuoka from the hive mind, if they caught on that something was _not right_ before they were ready—

 _'They won't. They won't know what they'll be looking at, and they won't wipe out their army except as a last resort. We have more immediate things to worry about now.'_ He nodded into the darkness, and while Haruka couldn't see it, he could sense it—more of the black tentacles, searching and hunting for the interloper they knew to be present, if not where Haruka was located. _'Now might be a good time to start building that block.'_

 __He could almost _hear_ them whizzing through the water and tamped down the primal urge to swim away, to kick and buck and strike at the water until he was free of their groping grasp—but this was no pool or ocean, there was no island sanctuary to head for, there was only he and Matsuoka and a thousand kaiju ready to tear into his fragile human psyche. _'Haru_ — _the block?'_ Matsuoka's voice sounded strained, nervous, and Haruka thought he felt something brushing feather-light against him, like tiny little minnows nipping at his feet and fingers, meekly at first, but with growing audacity, until something twined itself around his arm and _pulled_ —

 _'Fuck_ — _Haru!'_ Matsuoka jerked him back, his arm slipping loose, and he collapsed against Matsuoka's chest, the loud thudding of his heart pounding in Haruka's ears. _'What the hell are you waiting for? They're only sniffing you out just now, but they_ know _you're not supposed to be here_ — _so get your shit together.'_

 _'Don't_ — _know how,'_ he muttered pathetically, piecing the words together in his mind in a guttural drawl, and he reinforced his pidgin speech with echoes of confusion and a void of confidence. He wasn't supposed to be here, building mental walls to keep monsters out. He was made for _physical_ combat, needed something _solid_ and _real_ to fight against, something he could punch or jab and it would bleed. Empathy wasn't a _gift_ , and anyone who thought otherwise was a naive idiot. He could barely keep his own head straight at the best of times; how was he going to protect someone when it _mattered_?

Matsuoka's free arm tightened around him, drawing him close, and he buried his face into the crook of Haruka's neck, just holding the position in silence as the tentacle wrapped around his arm continued to syphon away evidence of how very far he'd come in these past weeks. _'You do know how; and I know you're scared, so don't give me any of that bullshit that you're not, but I need you to grow a fucking pair_ right now _because—I want to have more Mackerel Fridays and to convince Amakata-sensei to throw the Marshal a bone and to embarrass Tachibana more by marking you in all kinds of obvious places for him to find at the worst possible moment. You don't need a Kwoon Room to be a Fightmaster, okay? You just need something to fight_ for _. Am I not enough?'_

 __Haruka's heart felt like lead, sinking into his stomach, and he panicked anew. _'You're_ — _enough! Morethanenoughyou'reenoughstopstopdon'tsaythatofcourseyou're_ — _'_ At Matsuoka's pained shudder against him, he stopped the flood of unfiltered thought, still far less practiced at this than Matsuoka—then tried again after centering himself. _'You didn't realize it at the time_ — _but you lied.'_ Matsuoka pulled back, giving him a quizzical look, and Haruka turned his head to the side to focus on the inky tendril curled around Matsuoka's fist and wrist like a tar-caked gauntlet. _'...It doesn't_ have _to be like this at all.'_ He was tired of hearing Matsuoka say this was _just how it is_. No more.

He reached forward hesitantly, intent on peeling away the ugly, writhing mess covering Matsuoka's arm and already amassing the focus to fortify a wall that would have to bear the load of a thousand consciousnesses wailing against it—when Matsuoka stopped him, free hand holding him for a moment.

 _'Hang on_ — _I was saving this one for last.'_ And Haruka felt something warm bubble up, fizzy like a burst of champagne vibrating down Matsuoka's arm and into the tendril, which unlatched itself with a buzzing shudder, convulsing as it jerked away, like it had been hit with an electric jolt. When Haruka turned a confused glance on him, Matsuoka's brows went up in an amused quirk, _'Precursors ought to enjoy finding out what a "handjob" is.'_ Haruka felt a flush heat his features, a reprimand ready on his lips, but Matsuoka, just jerked his chin into the blackness. _'No time to flirt_ — _they're coming now, can't you sense them?'_

He could, felt them bearing down on their position like a school of tuna, ravenous and grasping and desperate. They were past the point of no return—there was no way Matsuoka could protect him now even if he’d wanted to, which meant it was now or never. He didn’t quite know what he was supposed to do to cut Matsuoka off, only that if he could block the tentacles from synchronizing with Matsuoka, maybe that would prevent any kill commands from reaching him as well. Matsuoka would be left helpless, a kaiju in name and origin only, but that was better than the alternative.

It was just like the nightmares, he was realizing; a thousand-thousand consciousnesses seeking them out, except this time, instead of Matsuoka cocooning Haruka protectively away, latching onto Haruka as a point of focus to bear the pain and exhaustion of shielding him, Haruka would have to do it. The memory of how much it clearly had been an effort for Matsuoka to bear the weight of his brethren didn’t bode well for Haruka, but he had no choice now, and he’d been given more than his fair share of opportunities to cut ties and get out.

Matsuoka was wrong. Maybe it had seemed easier to him in the briefing room and more difficult a choice when facing down the hive mind made manifest, coming for the both of them—but it made no difference at all to Haruka. His choice had been clear all along; he probably could have lived without Matsuoka in his head or at his side…but just now, he wasn’t ready to try yet. And frightening as the thought of facing these kaiju was, as little faith as he had in himself…he hadn’t lied. Matsuoka was _worth it_.

 _’You’re enough…’_ he muttered to himself again, then slid his arms under Matsuoka’s, pulling him tight to his chest and closing his eyes as he imagined the cocoon Matsuoka had built for them; not a wall that might be surmounted, but a _shell_ that could not be penetrated. The kaiju could have this place, but they would not have _them_. He would build on the plans that Matsuoka had given him night after night, and while he might not have the same mental strength, honed through superior genetics and an innate affinity for erecting mental barriers, he knew what such a shell looked like, how it _felt_ , and Matsuoka could help him fill in the chinks.

The first flickers of attention came like light rapping against the cocoon, tentative explorations of curious minds intrigued by this new _thing_ in their midst. But curiosity quickly gave way to frustration and irritation as the tendrils groped for a way to explore the internal workings of this bubble they had found, eventually enveloping the pair and their shell all together and _squeezing_ with a crushing force to rival that in the deepest depths of the ocean.

It was dark and intimate within, like an egg, and they curled silent and desperate around each other as the monsters pounded on the thin, delicate walls Haruka had erected. Cracks appeared, and Haruka poured himself bodily into patching them, fortifying his work with focused thoughts of _self_ and _non-self_. These were just emotions and thoughts that were not his own trying to blend and merge with him—he need only treat them as he did the constant stream and rush he encountered every day.

He spooled their Thread out, the inner walls of the shell turning into a patchwork of red veins throbbing with emotion and intent and prayed that, whatever this Thread represented, it was strong enough to keep the kaiju at bay. It was their own private little Conn Pod—and he was going to have to Pilot this thing himself. There were kaiju out there that wanted to tear them to shreds, and it was up to him to see that their defenses held and that he brought himself and his Partner back to safety.

 _’My…hero…’_ Matsuoka murmured weakly with a soft chortle, and Haruka wondered if it was energy lost through helping Haruka build his wall, or a side effect from losing any and all contact with the hive mind. He would have always been able to draw on its support innately before—but to well and truly be free of it might drain him more than he’d expected. _Shit_ —it might even kill him, and had Matsuoka really thought this through? Had this been nothing more than a suicide mission? Had—

A loud blast, like a deep foghorn, bellowed around them, nearly shattering the shell into a million pieces, and had the Thread not been anchored to the walls, strengthening it, Haruka worried that it might have undone them entirely. Like a call to arms, the blast repeated, and Haruka felt the tentacles winding around the shell, squeezing and crushing tighter, no longer looking for chinks in the armor to writhe their way inside. Now, they just wanted to be _rid_ of them both.

The pain was _excruciating_ —made it hard to think, hard to focus, hard to even _breathe_. It was like being back in Omega Free, being exposed to the raw, unfiltered attention of so many minds at once, except now instead of the kaiju trying to burrow their way out of his mind, they were banging on the door, demanding entrance.

Was this what Matsuoka had done for him? Borne this in the dead of the night so that Haruka hadn’t needed to? Was this what he’d saved Haruka from, taught him where to walk and warned him against stepping off the beaten path—all to spare him from this? So often Matsuoka had seemed nearly beaten, and that he hadn’t given up altogether, had _persisted_ in sticking with Haruka even though it had clearly been a doomed liaison from the start…both confused and inspired. He didn’t know if he’d have had the same strength, and knowing that Matsuoka needed him now, needed _his_ strength, stoked a desire to rise up and meet the challenge.

Matsuoka’s fine nails dug into the flesh of Haruka’s back, leaving painful marks that were only there in his mind, he knew, but burned all the same. This pain, he couldn’t share with Matsuoka—it was the agony of being cut off from everything he’d unconsciously drawn on before, of no longer having the mental surety of a thousand other beings at his back, lending him focus and stability. With it all so abruptly ripped away, Matsuoka was clearly faltering, unsure of himself, groping for something to cling to because his own legs weren’t strong enough to help him stand as his own person. He didn’t have a sense of _self_ not truly—his self-perception extended only as far as Haruka had led him, and had he understood their situation sooner, Haruka might have been able to take steps to help ease the transition. As it was, though, he could only thread his fingers through the fine hair at Matsuoka’s nape as the man clung tight to him, sobbing soundlessly into his chest as Haruka tore him from everything he’d ever known.

 _Selfish idiot_ , he almost wanted to snap—because he’d spent all this time offering Haruka an out, reminding him how excruciating the ordeal would be _for Haruka_ , all the while keeping mum on the fact that as painful as Haruka might find trying to keep the monsters out, Matsuoka would suffer all the worse being unable to keep them _in_.

The storm outside was a raging squall, the tentacles ripping and tearing through layer upon carefully erected layer like sand pelting tissue paper, but Haruka just kept throwing new barriers up, darkly confident now in the knowledge that he was fighting for both their lives, that much as Matsuoka might want to help, he was lost in the throes of separation anxiety. Haruka was alone, a tiny, defenseless human drowning in a dark void with wolves clawing at the door. But humans were just as much animals as the next creature down the evolutionary chain when cornered—and he hadn’t lied. Matsuoka _was enough_. He was worth fighting for.

And he wasn’t going to make a liar of Matsuoka either.

He drew back with some effort, pressing forehead to forehead, and took a deep calming breath, letting their Thread, loose and spooled out around them as it was, bathe them in mutual understanding and connection. _’Rin. Rin.’_ Matsuoka grimaced, a whined whimper working its way over his lips. _’All this time you tease me with my name, and I’m not allowed to use yours?’_ Matsuoka’s lids fluttered in recognition, and his lips opened and closed, forming soundless words, but nothing more. _’Don’t speak. Just listen. Because you seem to have forgotten, and I’m only going to remind you of this once: You. Are. Strong. You’re human, and humans don’t give up. They dig in their heels and are stubborn and stupid and think too much with their hearts instead of their heads. And now you’re one of us. So you need to start_ acting _like it.’_ He pulled back and flicked Matsuoka across the forehead as he’d done to Haruka earlier, allowing a soft, relieved smile when Matsuoka winced in irritation and reached up sluggishly to bat Haruka’s hand away.

Matsuoka was still thinking too much like a kaiju, relying on bonds he’d been born with rather than those he’d forged along the way, which would always outstrip these dark, grasping tendrils desperate to rejoin with him or crush him for noncompliance. The strength offered by Haruka, Makoto, Amakata-sensei, even the Marshal in his own grudging way, would be what eventually drove Matsuoka to save himself—to reject the hive mind wholly and be his own man.

 _’Don’t—know how—‘_ Matsuoka protested, a pathetic echo of Haruka’s own complaint, and it sounded so _foreign_ on his lips. He’d thought Matsuoka knew everything—he’d seemed this confident, oftentimes cocky font of wisdom. And yet he hadn’t pitied Haruka his ignorance, instead helping him stand and face his fears on his own two feet, with minimal coddling and all the trust and support in the world. To do the same in return was the least Haruka could do now.

 _’Of course you don’t,’_ Haruka reminded bluntly, _’But only because no one’s shown you. And I’m standing here now asking you to_ let me _. One life lived yourself is surely better than a thousand lived through others…’_ He ducked down to bring his lips level with Matsuoka’s, who’d cocked his head to the side, eyes clenched tight—and just inhaled softly, coaxing Matsuoka into a gently responsive kiss. His lips trembled under Haruka’s, warm and chapped, and Haruka wished distantly that they could have gone about this the _right_ way, if there was such a thing. Matsuoka stirred up strange, stupid urges within—like a desire to woo him, to romance him, to do crazy things that were embarrassing to consider outside of the safe confines of his own mind. He knew this was _Matsuoka’s_ doing, his own utterly ridiculous romantic notions bleeding into Haruka’s carefully tended mental landscape…but it still felt _his own_ , and maybe this was what it was like being hooked into the hive mind. He could understand why Matsuoka was loath to leave it when it was hard at times to tell what was self and what was other.

 _’Come be human with me, Rin.’_ He darted a tongue out, deepening the kiss a hair, and tasted the salty tang of old tears. _’Or am I not enough?’_

The Thread cocooning them _vibrated_ with an electric charge, glowing fierce and red like an open wound, and Matsuoka gasped into his mouth, arms tightening instantly like a clamp and pinning Haruka close as he accepted the kiss enthusiastically, breathing thickly, _’Take it away, take it all away. I’ll be human with you, please. Haru. Haru.’_

Haruka smiled against his lips; this side of Matsuoka—Rin—was turning out to be quite dangerous, made it entirely too easy for Haruka to feel _cocky_ and confident about himself. Just more of Rin bleeding into him, he supposed, which was fine as long as he didn't start craving a decent steak over a mackerel fillet or entertaining ridiculous notions like swimming in a pool of cherry blossoms (then again, Rin had been rather drunk when he'd suggested that...). They would leave behind the shell of the kaiju Matsuoka in this dark, lonely chasm—and return to the light of day with the human Rin. The boy who'd never been allowed to enjoy the pleasures of life would finally have a _chance_ , in this form if no other.

 _'...Only because you asked so nicely,'_ Haruka allowed with a squeeze of his arms, then added with sober promise, _'It's my turn to show you a sight you've never seen before, Rin.'_

* * *

He'd long since stopped being surprised to find himself waking staring up at the ceiling of the medical bay.

"...Welcome back to the land of the living, Haru-chan."

Haruka's head slowly twisted to the side, cramped muscles making their objection to the movement known in the form of spikes of pain shooting along his nape and shoulders. Makoto raised a few fingers to wave a greeting, glasses nearly falling off his nose and looking ten years older than he was. Had he been out that long? And—"Matsuoka...?"

Makoto opened his mouth to respond, a grin quirking his lips, when a gruff voice called from the other side of the bed, "I leave for like one minute to take a piss and you decide to come around? Way to ruin the moment, Nanase." But the venom in his words was dulled by the way his brows rose up and his lips twitched, aching to spread into a smile as he strode over, hands stuffed in his pockets to affect a casual air. He kicked idly at the leg of the cot Haruka rested on. "I'd almost convinced Tachibana here to loosen up and help me pull the shaving cream gag on you, too."

Haruka cast a suspicious frown in Makoto's direction, and Makoto raised his arms in defense. "Lies. I _only_ agreed not to rat him out."

Shifting upright and ignoring the _Take it easy_ from both his caretakers, Haruka rubbed at his stiff neck and rasped, "...What happened...?" Swallowing thickly in a vain attempt to wet his parched throat, he flicked a hesitant glance over to Rin. Surely...they would have said something outright if they'd failed, wouldn't they? This wasn't just trying to ease the blow was it?

Rin grabbed a chair and twisted it around, straddling the seat with his arms crossed over the back as he settled down. "You want the long version, or the short?"

"Short."

"Yes."

Haruka paused, waiting for him to elaborate, and when nothing came, he huffed in irritation. "... _Fine_. Long."

"Yes, it worked." Rin's grin widened childishly, before going a bit loopy as he shrugged, "I mean—we _think_ so, at least? I think I'd know if it hadn't and...well, things feel different. That's about all I can really explain." He shared a quick glance with Makoto before dropping his voice, and only now did Haruka realize they weren't exactly alone, just cordoned off from the rest of the ward by curtains. "I don't...really know what you did, or how, or if you're still doing it—if you _have_ to keep doing it for it to work. But whatever it was...I don't feel them anymore." He paused, going silent in sober consideration for a moment, before asking, "...Do you?"

And now that Rin brought it up...he didn't, really. He'd never felt the hive mind as keenly as Rin had, but it had always been there on some level, an incessant buzzing, like someone had been watching him—but whenever he looked around, no one was there. He felt more comfortable in his skin now, like he knew it was _his_ skin again, and while he could still feel Rin's presence licking at the edges of his mind...it was different now. Cleaner, more honest and open. Simpler. And he liked that very much. He shook his head to answer the question. "...Though I don't quite understand _how_..."

Makoto cleared his throat. "Well, I can't tell you what went on when you slipped into Limbo; most pilots who tread there barely remember the experience beyond relating it as a dream. The more you try to remember, the less you're able to recall. But—the low-level background noise that we've always assumed was just part and parcel of Matsuoka's neural signature disappeared approximately two hours and twenty minutes after we put the two of you in the pons units. We only really noticed it _because_ it disappeared; reduced the peaks on readout almost by half. We nearly pulled you out then because we worried something had gone wrong."

Haruka frowned to himself, surprised at the rush of disappointment flowing through him; he'd wanted to remember it all, to be able to play it back and review everything, every fleeting thought he'd had and wild fantasy he'd entertained because he'd known it might be his last. But all that came were snatches of recollection—dark writhing vines trying to tear Rin away, Rin's body crushed against his own in a fierce embrace and begging...for something, a promise that he couldn't remember...much less be expected to keep. It wasn't _fair_.

But then Rin furtively brushed the tips of their fingers together where Haruka's hand lay limp on the coverlet, and an energetic spark lit him up like a streetlamp—and he could have _wept_ , because _it wasn't gone_. It was _still there_ , and _shit_ he'd needed to know that, hadn't even realized how badly he'd been _praying_ for the Ghost Drift to still be there, even if it wasn't as strong. But the connection still blazed brightly, feeling like it could power the whole Shatterdome and still have energy left over to charge a few Jaeger generators, and Rin huffed softly to himself. "...Guess that answers _that_ question."

"It's still there?" Makoto interrupted now, leaning forward and clearly eager to pepper them with questions after allowing them the moment propriety dictated. "That's...we're definitely getting you both back in the labs as soon as you're recovered, you realize. And after we ensure the mission was a success, of course."

"A success?" Haruka echoed, because hadn't they just confirmed that they had indeed pulled it off?

"Ah—well, yeah?" He shrugged sheepishly. "I mean, the Marshal's gonna want to make sure, you realize? Can't exactly let a kaiju...or whatever Matsuoka qualifies as...wander around the Shatterdome when he might still be a spy." He smiled with some apology at Rin here—"No offense."—then turned back to Haruka. "We all have orders to report back to the pons units as soon as the both of you are capable. Marshal said he doesn't care if it's—and I quote—'ass o'clock in the morning'."

It grated that after all they'd been through—and while he couldn't remember the finer points, Haruka felt like he'd been through hell and back—the Marshal still thought Rin a threat to the compound. "What time is it now?"

Rin pushed back from the chair, rolling his sleeve up and glancing down at his watchless wrist. "Well would you look at that? It's five 'til ass o'clock just now!" He then extended a hand, waiting for Haruka to grip it and be pulled from the bed. "C'mon; let's get this over with, because medical bay food sucks and they won't let us back into the mess hall 'til they're sure I'm not going to bring the wrath of the Anteverse raining down upon us all. Which I might try and do anyway since the menu they posted online said there's gonna be _kimchi_ tonight and _fuck_ if I'm missing kimchi."

Haruka eyed him strangely, flicking a questioning glance at Makoto, who just shrugged sympathetically. "I'm sure they'll have a seafood option as well."

* * *

"And you're _sure_ I'll know?"

Makoto nodded shortly, offering the Marshal a smile that was not reassuring in the least as he ticked off boxes on a lengthy checklist attached to his clipboard and motioned for a technician to apply EKG sensors to the man's chest. "All of Matsuoka's partners succumbed to Drifter Bends within ten minutes of entering the Drift with him—range of 3.2 to 9.7, mean 5.4 minutes." The Marshal was losing his color, looking like he was reconsidering the entire activity. "But all breakdowns were preceeded by erratic neural readouts, presumably from the affected pilot being overwhelmed by the kaiju collective as channeled through Matsuoka."

" _Presumably_ ," Sasabe grunted, flicking a suspicious gaze over at the adjacent pod, where Rin was just now climbing in and settling in the pool of relay gel. "You're sure this is safe?"

"...As safe as it can be, Sir," Makoto allowed diplomatically. "Provided Nananse was indeed successful in severing the connection Matsuoka had with the kaiju hive mind, he should be no more harmful to you in the Drift now than any other pilot, though I doubt we'll achieve any measurably promising sync ratios, given that we haven't assessed your Drift Compatibili—"

But Sasabe just waved him off. "I'm not marching off to the Breach with him; I just want to see for myself if he's still a liability or not. Nanase." Here, he now directed his attention to Haruka, jerking his head to beckon him closer as Sasabe lifted an arm to allow the technician to place an electrode on his side. "Give me your read."

"My...read, Sir?"

"Did you do it, or not? Is he gonna fry my brain? And you'd better be straight as an arrow with me, Soldier."

The hard glint in his eye said that Sasabe was itching to call back the Striketroopers who'd clocked Rin in the briefing room before, and Haruka pursed his lips into a thin line, settling into a familiar academic tone of explanation. "Regardless of Matsuoka's efforts, the Partner can always detect the hive mind in the Drift, Sir—even if he doesn't quite realize what it is. As I understand it, Matsuoka offered no aid or protection to previous Partners—which left them vulnerable to the rigors of bearing the weight of the kaiju collective, leaving them to suffer what we came to call Drifter Bends."

Sasabe snorted derisively , then raised a brow. "...But not you, huh? Funny." Really, the Marshal was the _last_ person to be advising his subordinates against fraternization.

Haruka coolly ignored the bait. "In my case, I was better equipped to handle the strain on my own, which allowed us to achieve a proper Drift long enough for my human emotions to begin to infect Matsuoka. Which is what has brought us where we are today."

"So either way, I'll know, then?" A nod. "Not exactly a glowing vote of confidence..." He shrugged to himself. "But he's more use to us alive than dead, so I guess we're stuck with him." He clapped Haruka on the shoulder to dismiss him without another word, then eased into the pons unit, reaching up to yank the hatch closed himself without waiting for a tech. Haruka glanced over at Rin's unit, spooling out a Thread of support, and felt his stomach lurch giddily at the nod of confidence Rin returned him before he disappeared into his own pod. 

At the pons-prototype LOCCENT terminal, a lab tech called out the Drift initiation sequence, and Haruka inhaled sharply—this was it. The Marshal was the highest ranking officer in the Shatterdome—and Haruka knew he would not hold back, would dig through Rin's head and pick apart his thoughts and memories with a fine-toothed comb. If he saw something he didn't like—or didn't trust, if he had the slightest _inkling_ that Rin would prove more liability than aid, he'd order a bullet through his brain, Haruka's own well-being be damned. Everything they'd gone through, the nightmares and memories and drowning in the blackness of Limbo while monsters clamored for entrance—for _nothing_. 

This was the first time in his life he'd ever truly _fought_ for something. Everything else has just happened naturally—being chosen to join the PPDC, learning to manage his empathy, rising up through the ranks to take Fightmaster, all of it a struggle on some level but never something he'd gone after and viciously, _fervently_ held his ground to achieve. Rin was a first; the first time something had been _worth it_. He wasn't just _enough_ , he was _everything_ now. What did it mean if he fought so hard for something only to lose it in the next breath? There was still _so much_ to say, so much to teach Rin about what it meant to be a human.

And no one deserved to die ignorant of what they were dying _for_.

"Prepare for neural handshake—in 5—4—3—2—1—"

A soft, digital hum crescendoed, echoed by a flurry of soft murmuring as the LOCCENT team puttered about, examining readings—the floor bustled with activity, and Haruka sought out Makoto's eyes, despairing to find him conversing in hushed tones with the technician at his side as he traced something on the screen with the pen from his tablet.

He fisted his hands at his sides, muscles clenched and wondering if he ought to stand watch over the screens with Makoto; perhaps he might be able to make something out of the readings himself—it certainly beat standing around, helplessly watching and hoping—when a gruff voice crackled over a speaker: " _...Someone want to explain to me why the fuck Matsuoka has memories of wearing a bikini on Bondi Beach?_ "

Haruka's heart rose into his throat, and Makoto darted a hand forward to open a communications channel. "...Sir?"

" _Get me the hell out of this idiot's head; I've seen things I never wanted to, now, and I don't mean the Anteverse._ " A pause, and for clarification, he added. " _He's clean, near as I can tell._ "


	12. Chapter 12

He knew he ought to have been expecting it—and he had, on some level—but actually being _told_ , hearing it for himself, that he would not ( _could_ not) be allowed back into Omega Free with Rin…was more of a disappointing shock than Haruka had thought it would be.

The science was sound, the arguments understandable—only Haruka’s jerry-rigged mental block stood between himself and Rin being ripped to shreds from the neural synapses out when they entered the Drift, given that the kaiju had their scent now, and while Rin was theoretically human (at least in all the ways that mattered), the risk of being sniffed out should they be caught in the Drift when a kaiju crossed through the Breach meant that they couldn’t be Drifting with kaiju lumbering around the Ring of Fire, essentially grounding them from ever piloting a combat mission together. The Marshal had at least seemed reluctant to deliver the news that they were being dismissed from their posts as Pilots, admitting that it was going to be hell trying to find another team just when they’d gotten everything properly calibrated and made promising headway with the prototype, but it was what it was. Yet another _just how it is_.

But even discounting the threat of the kaiju waiting to attack that which had once been ‘self’, there was still the matter of if it was even _possible_ for them to Drift now; their attempts before, while a series of spectacular failures initially, had eventually adopted a delicate balance, with Haruka able to bear the weight of the hive mind because he’d been dealing with similar all his life and Rin able to avoid being dragged down by Haruka because he had the weight of the kaiju collective at his back, balancing the strain. Now, with Rin nothing more than a ‘normal’ human in every way that mattered, there was little guarantee that he wouldn’t suffer the same fate as every other one of Haruka’s previous Drift partners.

Haruka had reflected distantly that just because he couldn’t Drift with _Haruka_ didn’t mean they might be able to find some way for Rin to Drift with someone else, to find another Pilot he was compatible with—at the very least, he might be able to help train recruits in Pons sessions, as it would be quite a shame to let someone with his experience go to waste. But the Marshal hadn’t suggested it, and Rin hadn’t offered, so Haruka stayed quiet for the time being.

Following the impromptu pod session with the Marshal, both Haruka and Rin had been dismissed to the medical bay for overnight monitoring, and Makoto had allayed Rin’s hot, _”What?!”_ with a promise to visit with warm meals pilfered from the mess hall provided they returned without further fuss. Rin must have been truly famished, for he acquiesced without much protest, grumbling under his breath about how ridiculous it was that they were being treated like fine china. Haruka silently agreed, though he made no effort to make this known; Rin could talk enough for the both of them once he got going, and Haruka still had much to reflect on.

It had been one thing to be forced into close quarters with Rin and slowly learn to accept the limits of his cage, to find the silver lining of an otherwise very cloudy situation, but now…he was, for all intents and purposes, free. Free once again to return to the Kwoon Room he hadn’t spent a day _not_ missing, to fall into his own bed in his own room without _nightmares_ to contend with, to swim just to _swim_ and not to race or compete or to strengthen a bond.

So why did he still feel so _trapped_ , like he was losing control over the matter and being backed into a corner where he had no choice yet again? How did he feel, now, further away from Rin despite all that they’d been through and worked so desperately to overcome? He couldn’t remember what had happened in Limbo, not clearly, but he knew he’d been scared—terrified, not just for himself, but of _losing Rin_. And for what?

They’d kissed—and not just once. Not just twice, even. But he hadn’t wanted to rip Rin from the hive mind just for a short, heady quickie in the locker room—nor had he done so because he wanted some sort of life companion to share his hopes and dreams with or something equally saccharine. If emotions were new and foreign to Rin, then they felt strangely just as alien to Haruka right now, because wasn’t it supposed to be _easier_ than this, figuring out what you wanted from someone? Weren’t you just supposed to _know_ what you craved, because wasn’t _desire_ in all its forms—sexual, emotional, self-serving—the most basic of human instincts? Wasn’t _this_ supposed to make sense, even when all else was confused and muddled?

Or could he blame this on Rin as well—confusion and distraction bleeding over the Thread and muddying Haruka’s thoughts?

“…You know,” Rin started as they approached the long corridor which kept the medical bay and K-science labs cordoned off from the rest of the Shatterdome. “…I guess I kind of owe you now.”

Haruka regarded him for a moment in his peripheral vision before returning, “It was as much for me as for you.”

“Was it?” It wasn’t a question, but a challenge, and Haruka supposed this was what he got for not guarding this thoughts well enough. “I’m not stupid. I’m new to these emotions, but I’m a necessarily fast learner; you acted on impulse, not because you…” He trailed off, huffing to himself. “I gave you an out time and time again; if you weren’t prepared to take responsibility then—” Here, he stopped and grabbed Haruka by the shoulder, shoving him back against the wall and leaning in, clearly attempting to use the few centimeters or so of height he had on Haruka to intimidate—and failing. His frustration was palpable, but Haruka took it in blithe stride. “I’m not a stray for you to take in on a whim only to get tired of me and toss me out on my ass. You…” He faltered again, and his voice sounded less sure when he continued, “You asked me. To come be human with you.” Had he? He didn’t remember, but it sounded like something he might say, strangely enough. Rin’s fingers digging into his shoulder where he kept Haruka pressed against the wall relaxed a hair as he took a measured step back. “So I’m here.”

Haruka let the silence stretch between them for a long moment in consideration, before asking, “…Why?”

“Why…what?”

“Why did you agree? Why are you here?” Had it all been nothing more than survival instincts? He couldn’t _remember_ , but he felt like it was important to know. That it would help him organize his own jumbled thoughts if he could just use Rin’s as a starting block. He needed that instant of connection, the flash of realization that Rin was _home_ and now it was his turn to complete the cycle.

“ _Because_ , you idiot,” he spat in frustration, shoulders slumping in defeat. “ _You’re_ here. Of _course_ I’d follow you.” His fingers crumpled limply in the loose fabric of Haruka’s windbreaker. “…You promised to show me a sight I’d never seen before.”

And maybe they were going about this all the wrong way—maybe it was his own fault for not understanding, for being confused and assuming the worst when he was perfectly capable of figuring this mess out himself. Haruka lifted his arms, which felt like iron weights at his sides, to gingerly cup Rin’s jaw on either side, holding him in place and letting his focus dwindle down to a tiny, bright point, allowing all of the wild, unbidden emotions Rin was experiencing to fill that point until it burned bright like a new sun, glinting and brilliant. 

Then he let the cup run over, emotions flowing around him in a coursing channel whose rhythm and speed he carefully dictated, so as not to be overwhelmed. So much pain and confusion and bitter regret, anger that _these_ were the emotions Rin felt most full of right now, and tempered under them all like the still waters beneath a sheet of ice on a frozen lake, the familiar affection and adoration and curiosity and piqued interest. Like he found Haruka to be the most _fascinating_ thing in the world and wanted nothing more than to learn him, stem to stern, until there wasn’t one square inch of skin he didn’t know, until he could predict Haruka’s reaction to a given suggestion without the aid of the Ghost Drift, until he’d _seen that sight_. A soft sigh of relief bubbled up, and Haruka quickly bit it back, ashamed. 

Rin hadn’t missed it, for his breath caught in his chest and his brows lifted high in confusion. “…Haru?”

He was just the same, just the same as ever. Haruka _hated_ the pressure of being relied upon, of being someone others turned to for strength and hope and all of that tripe, so he’d panicked, thinking himself _obligated_ to Rin now—but nowhere in that maelstrom of emotion had he felt need or dependency, only everything he’d come to associate with his partner over the weeks. Rin hadn’t changed; only Haruka’s perception of him had—and into a distorted mess, at that.

He let his fingers fall away to curl around Rin’s wrists and traced the veins winding just under the surface of the smooth, pale skin with his thumbs. “…We should get to the medical bay. Or they’ll send orderlies to find us.” He made no effort to move, though, nor did Rin, and they stood there in silence in the empty hallway for several long moments.

Rin expected nothing from him but more of what Haruka had already offered, admittedly reluctantly—he simply craved knowledge and experience, or to experience old things _anew_ , because so many things, Haruka understood, meant so much _more_ when coupled with thought and feeling and emotion. He felt this perhaps more keenly than most, because the knowledge buffeted him like waves on a stormy sea daily. It was easy for someone with his abilities to grow bored, jaded, _immune_ to life—even a life like his, on the front lines in a PPDC Shatterdome. Rin was like…a breath of fresh, clean air after coming up from a deep dive. His lungs had been straining for relief, and he hadn’t even realized it—and now that it was here, offered freely, he didn’t seem to quite know what to do with it.

“…I think they’re going to take the room away from us.” He didn’t know why he’d just said that, only that they needed to fill this silence somehow, or they’d never make it back to the medical wing.

“…What?” Rin could hardly be blamed for sounded perplexed at the sudden change in topic, but Haruka didn’t miss the sliver of panic in his voice as well. Understandable, since he’d probably come to think of their quarters as _home_ given that he’d only just learned how to form such emotional attachments.

“It was only ever supposed to be temporary anyway, and those quarters are meant to be used by high-ranking officers and dignitaries. There’s no point in wasting a good room on…us.” Whatever they were now; not even a pair of Rangers, just a Fightmaster (who neither wanted nor merited such fine lodgings) and the human dregs left behind by a Precursor experiment gone wrong.

Rin forced a wry grin, snorting softly, “Any chance I can get them to make me the visiting ambassador from the Anteverse?” And even though he knew the smile to be less than genuine, simply Rin doing what he always did and trying to hide behind a mask, he forgave him this one misstep and allowed his lips to twitch faintly at the corners in amusement. They’d both had a rather horrible day, and there would be plenty of time for lectures later.

He tugged lightly on Rin’s wrist, easing off the wall and shifting his weight to urge Rin backward—then started down the hall again, Rin in tow. “C’mon then, Your Excellency.”

* * *

On arriving back in the medical bay, they were stopped at the nurse’s station by an orderly who informed them, to their immense surprise, that the beds they’d occupied had already been stripped down, as he was under the impression that they’d been dismissed on their own recognizance and were under orders to return to their room to await further instruction. The man passed Haruka the release form to corroborate his claim, and Haruka frowned at the scrawled _Tachibana_ at the bottom. 

“We were also instructed to hold these in the hotbox.” The orderly drew out a pair of bentou boxes tied together with string—and though the plastic film was hazy with condensation, a hastily scribbled post-it taped to the top-most box described the meals’ contents.

“Oh fuck yeah, I knew I liked Tachibana!” Rin crowed in glee, snatching up the boxes with a broad grin as he awkwardly elbowed Haruka out of the way, headed back the way they’d come. “Can’t believe he actually came through. Now I see why you like the guy.” Haruka rolled his eyes and thanked the orderly for his help, then made his way to follow Rin.

Violating the Marshal’s orders was probably not the smartest thing to do so close on the heels of Rin very nearly being executed, but exhaustion from the ordeal was starting to finally set in now that the adrenaline high had worn off, and falling face-first into bed was sounding more and more like a rather splendid idea. Whatever Makoto had scrounged together for them smelled delicious, and by the time they rounded the final corner to the corridor housing their quarters, they had stepped up the pace of their walking until they were practically jogging for their door. Rin was the first to arrive—and the triumphant _Ha!_ showed that he knew it—and in short order, they were breaking apart disposable chopsticks and digging into the leftovers Makoto had pilfered from the mess hall for them.

“…You gonna take a bath?”

Haruka glanced up from his tablet, flipping through the few messages he’d missed in the wake of everything—including an IM from Makoto asking if they’d enjoyed the bentous, which he quickly deleted with a flushing frown. Rin had a thumb jerked over his shoulder and brows raised in question, a towel hanging around his neck as he’d just finished washing the few dirty dishes that had piled up. 

“Oh…yeah. In a minute.” Rin just nodded and headed into the bedroom, tossing the towel onto the counter and reaching to grab the hem of his shirt before peeling it off over his head. Haruka glanced back down at his tablet—less to finish going through his messages and more in an effort to look at _anything_ else but the strong, fluid play of muscles along Rin’s back as he left. He toyed briefly with the idea of inviting Rin to join him, opening his mouth with words on his lips and voice tight in his throat as he readied himself to speak—but then closed it again. He’d only meant to invite him to share in companionship, as Haruka found the close, quiet comfort of the bath rather relaxing, allowing him to imagine that nothing existed beyond the four walls and tub of water, and Rin looked like he could use some relaxation just now. But such an invitation might come off more suggestive than intended, and…it was simply too new right now. 

They hadn’t gotten off on the best foot, hadn’t had a moment’s down-time to breathe—they were still the both of them operating on instinct, and that tended to lead to complications. Rin would almost assuredly not turn him down, if he offered, but that wasn’t the issue. He’d apparently promised to show Rin a sight he’d never seen—to teach him how to be human. Step two, after learning to recognize emotions…was learning to control them, to not act on every impulse but instead contemplate consequences.

He set the tablet aside to charge—then headed for the bathroom, stopping off in the bedroom on the way to pull out a change of clothes. They’d both rinsed off earlier—Rin twice, after his second pod session with the Marshal—so Rin probably wasn’t planning on taking another shower just yet, but Haruka couldn’t sleep without at least taking a few moments to feel the water against his skin, not as a means to a clean body but as an entity that enveloped and cocooned and accepted. Psych Analysts would probably have a field day with him—Makoto certainly did—but he didn’t see his eccentricities as hurting anyone and therefore allowed himself these little luxuries.

But tonight, for some reason, his hand hesitated as he reached forward to program the monitor on the tub—pausing, because…yes, he wanted to soak, wanted to sit in blessed silence and let his mind drift, but the more time he spent here, enjoying his privacy, the more time Rin was going to be left sitting _out there_ , alone ( _truly_ alone) with his own thoughts. If Haruka’s mind was running in circles just now, leaping to all kinds of ridiculous conclusions…what must Rin be going through? 

He knew well that worrying about the situation was ridiculous; Rin wasn’t going to have a mental breakdown just from Haruka soaking in the tub for ten minutes, nor would he likely feel all that flattered that Haruka thought him a delicate flower that needed constant monitoring. And Haruka was at a loss to explain the uneasy churning in his stomach himself—he hated the notion of being _needed_ , and yet not for the first time, here he was yearning to be the hero, once again, charging to someone’s rescue. Whether in a Conn Pod or a twin bed, it seemed he could not escape the urge to give others a reason to reach out to him for aid while still spurning them in the same turn. 

With a frustrated huff, he slapped the knob to _/shower/_ and quickly rinsed off, being sure to give himself a thorough scrub. How things had worked out this way, he couldn’t begin to fathom, but perhaps this was yet another _just how it is_. It was starting to become a life mantra since Rin had shown up, and he didn’t like it one bit. 

Turning off the spray, he quickly toweled himself dry in the changing area and ran his hands through his hair; he probably shouldn’t go to bed with his hair wet, but his short-cropped style dried quickly enough, and he’d probably be asleep before it dampened his pillow enough to annoy. He toed on a pair of boxers and a wifebeater that smelled faintly of mothballs and paused to take in his reflection in the mirror. His skin was paler than he liked from a winter spent underground; with the coming summer, he hoped to start hosting a few sessions a week on the beachfront. Hadn’t Rin suggested they do some ocean runs? Maybe they could hop a train to Yokosuka on their next day of leave and make the open-water swim to Sarushima. Imagining the look on Rin’s face if he were to suggest it made him feel a lightness in his stomach that wasn’t entirely unpleasant—but he chalked it up to spending too much time steaming in the bath, and quickly made his way back out into the bedroom.

The lights had been doused, and it was difficult to see in the darkness—but the light streaming in from the bathroom made one thing very clear: Rin was back in his own bed. Why this should irritate so was beyond Haruka; the nightmares had been a product of being hooked into the hive mind, and with that connection severed now, there was no further need to share such constant contact—or the bed that facilitated it.

And yet—he was not so oblivious as to believe that Rin was truly content in everything going back to how it had been before things had all gone so _wrong_. Haruka, more than anyone else, understood the simplistic, uncomplicated emotions bubbling up in an effervescent fizz through Rin’s core right now—Rin was not sleeping in his own bed because he didn’t need Haruka to ground him anymore, he wasn’t sleeping there because he had no desire to share space with Haruka (far from it; he probably would have eventually scrounged up an excuse to sleep together even _without_ the nightmares, so much did he seem to crave contact).

He was sleeping there because of some trumped up notion of what was and wasn’t right, gleaned from the unfiltered panicked thoughts that had been leaking from Haruka’s mind all day. He thought this was what Haruka _wanted_ —and he wasn’t incorrect. He _did_ want his space, his privacy, to not be bothered—but later, perhaps. After he’d made sure that Rin _understood_. Understood that Haruka was free again to make his own choices—and that he was choosing Rin.

He flicked the light off in the bathroom, plunging the room into darkness, and waited a few long moments for his eyes to adjust before trying to make his way to Rin’s mattress, groping blindly at the edges before peeling back the coverlet and slipping in behind Rin. He could feel the muscles of Rin’s back tense sharply as he moved in close, inhaling deeply at the base of Rin’s neck—it still stank faintly of the relay gel, and he regretted once again not giving in and coaxing Rin into the bath with him, or at least insisting he take a proper soak. “… _Now_ you start growing a conscience?” he muttered tartly, sour waves palpable over their Thread.

“…Pretty sure that’s the definition of humanity.” He’d thought Rin’s voice would be heavy with sleep—but he sounded wide awake, and Haruka wondered if he’d been lying here, waiting for him, wondering how Haruka would react to their sleeping arrangements. “And you’re still soaked—go sleep in your own bed; you’re getting my pillow all wet.”

Haruka ignored him, instead burrowing deeper between Rin’s neck and the pillow and settling an arm casually over Rin’s side, snapping the elastic band of the pajama pants he wore lightly against the skin over his hip in a lazy rhythm. “I would—but what if the nightmares come back?”

Rin reached around to bat the hand away, but Haruka just grabbed the fingers in a tight grip for a moment—before lacing them together. Rin didn’t pull away this time. “They won’t be back,” he assured flatly, and Haruka might have had misgivings at the flippant dismissal if he hadn’t already come to the same conclusion himself. If nothing else good came of all this effort to wrest Rin firmly into the ‘human’ column, at least they would neither one of them have to put up with that nightly horror show any longer. No one deserved to live with that—not even a kaiju.

He closed his eyes, and after a beat of silence, commended softly, “…I’m impressed, you know.”

A snort. “With what?” It almost hurt that he didn’t take the bait and run with it, letting the matter drop instead of crowing something like _of course you are; I’m pretty damn awesome_.

“…You had to bear them alone for so long.” He frowned to himself, trying not to think of Rin, younger, frailer, alone in the darkness waiting for someone to come along who might be able to bear the strain of the hive mind and help him cope with the demons that lurked in Limbo and at the edges of consciousness.

But after an uncomfortable beat of silence, Rin reminded, “…You know—it was different before, right?” The bedsprings creaked as Rin shuffled over first onto his back and then his side again to now face Haruka; the faint glow of emergency nightlights near the doorways limned his features softly, just enough for Haruka to make out the wry smile on his lips. “I mean…it never bothered me before; because I didn’t know I was _supposed_ to be afraid. I didn’t really know what fear _was_ even.” After all—what did a monster have to fear from other monsters? Rin—and the martial machine he was merely one tiny, insignificant cog in—was supposed to be the next level in kaiju evolution, cold and calculating and able to play the role of ‘human’ pretty well but who was _not_ one where it most mattered. Rin chuckled bitterly, “I wasn’t being melodramatic when I said I’d been _infected_.”

 _Infected_. Humanity was a disease, a virus coursing through Rin’s veins, searing with an intensity greater than that of Kaiju Blue and forcing him to _feel_ —and of course it wouldn’t simply be all of the wonderful emotions, the joy and excitement and affection in life; it would be the _consciousness_ of all that he’d experience, instinctive fear and mistrust and despair. And it was all Haruka’s fault; if they’d never Drifted, if he’d never made that connection with Rin—then Rin would still be trapped, but at least in blissful ignorance. He wouldn’t _know_ what he was missing, wouldn’t be able to name all the horrors he’d experienced for what they were. He would be able to lie down at night and sleep unencumbered by guilt or worry, because he had his mission, he had his orders—and that was all he needed, all that mattered. Rin had been created the good soldier Haruka could never hope to be—and now he’d ruined him.

“ _Hey_.” Rin’s voice was sharp with reprimand, and he reached up and slapped Haruka’s cheek lightly for attention, brows bunching together. “Don’t think like that.” He then soothed the cheek with an apologetic caress, frowning more at himself than the situation. “You seriously think I was better off before all this?”

Of course not—well, no, not really. Maybe a little. It wasn’t that, it was just…difficult. To tell just yet if this had all been worth it. And he worried, somewhere deep down, in a place he didn’t like to admit existed—because that meant that he cared what others thought about him—that Rin might…resent him, at least on some level, even if subconsciously. “…I feel like you must at least wonder. If this was all worth it.”

Rin huffed a sigh, sliding forward until their heads shared a pillow and foreheads nearly touched, and he reached between them to play with the fraying edges of the wifebeater Haruka wore. “…It’s weird. Because I can still…remember. Before we Drifted. All the things I’ve done, all the orders I ever received, everything—but it feels like…it was someone else’s life.” He shook his head. “I can’t understand it anymore; everything used to be so clear, so uncomplicated, and…and I know that I used to think human emotions were simple, primitive, but they’re _not_ , this is just…”

He trailed off, and Haruka felt a surge of sympathy, slipping a hand down between them to thread their fingers together since Rin still seemed gun-shy about asking for it outright. The shudder of relief that echoed through them both felt, if anything, stronger now than before they’d broken Rin away from the hive mind. “…I still can’t entirely agree that humanity is necessarily all that preferable to the life you left, on the whole.” When the alternative was _death_ , then yes, humanity was the obvious choice to take; but Haruka spent every day struggling to keep his head above the waves of emotion that buffeted him from all sides. Primitive, human emotions might be—but simple, they were not.

“…I’d still rather be a human with you, than anything else without.” And Haruka felt through the Thread an echo of fear—no longer fear of the kaiju, or fear for Haruka’s safety or Rin’s own, but fear of _what might have been_ , a dread that settled thick and heavy in his stomach. Rin was _terrified_ , thinking about how he might still be stuck in that cage, ignorant and unknowing, never realizing what he was missing and simply striding forward, head bowed and single-minded as he worked to destroy Haruka and everything he cared for. The wave of revulsion Rin felt washed over Haruka as well, leaving behind the bitter tang of guilt. “I’ve seen all the sights life as a kaiju had to offer,” he reminded thickly. From what Haruka had seen along with him, none of it had been terribly comforting. Rin inhaled deeply, and when he spoke again, he sounded more like himself. “…So are you gonna go back to your bed, or what?”

Rin’s fingers had gone limp against Haruka’s, as if already steeling himself to be pushed away, for the requisite space to be reestablished between them. “…Do you really want me to?” He hoped it didn’t come out as a challenge, because he hadn’t meant it to—he really _was_ curious—but conversations with Rin nearly always wound up turning into some sort of dick-measuring machismo competition. 

The fingers tugged free of his grip—before Rin settled a hand at Haruka’s hip this time, repeating the teasing gesture Haruka had subjected him to earlier as he dipped a finger under the hem of the light sleep pants Haruka wore and snapped the elastic against his hip. “Not particularly, no.” And then the grin in his words turned into a chuckle. “…So you really think they’re gonna kick us out?” Without waiting for Haruka to reply, he pressed, “…What’re we gonna do, when they put us up in separate rooms?” It was patently clear this was no longer about sleeping arrangements. 

Such weighty topics, though, were probably best not discussed with Rin’s humanity so new and both their emotions in flux. He didn’t want to think beyond the next five minutes, didn’t want to consider some far-off, ambiguous future together—especially when it still wasn’t entirely clear what their futures _separately_ might be. “…Live in separate rooms, I imagine,” he allowed at length, and suppressed snort at the frown he could practically feel over their connection. “It’s not a terribly big Shatterdome. I’m sure we’ll run into one another.”

Rin opened his mouth, like he wanted to protest, but instead asked, “Oh yeah—so what’re you gonna do now? They can’t put us back into the field, and neither one of us could pair with another pilot even if we wanted to…”

Haruka just shrugged. “I guess they’ll send me back to being Fightmaster again.” He hoped he didn’t sound too excited about it; it was all he’d ever wanted, but he felt a twinge of guilt at coming off as so eager to abandon the Jaeger program yet again. He’d cut ties with that branch of the PPDC long ago, and Rin aside, the past few months had not been a pleasant reminder. It was more difficult to remind yourself you hated something, weren’t fit for it, when you were being reminded daily how adept you truly _were_. Were it not for the Marshal’s orders—he might have been tempted to pursue Rin’s flippant comment that, with time and training, he might be able to handle the neural load of piloting solo, the hive mind be damned.

Rin perked up, shifting up onto his elbows on his stomach. “You’re going back to the Kwoon Room, then?” He inhaled sharply. “Wait—so that means I can fight you again??”

Haruka rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms—not because he was tired, but because he could see where this thread of conversation was going. “You _really_ like competing, don’t you…”

Rin flopped down on the pillow again, closing his eyes. “…Nah, you’re just special.” He opened one eye, looking far younger now than his records revealed him to be, and Haruka wondered if this was what he was meant to be like—the real Matsuoka Rin, the boy that had been taken from his home and family to give rise to the Precursor’s army. How much was innate nature, and how much of what Rin _was_ was truly unique, truly _Rin_? “You gonna take me there?”

“The Kwoon Room?”

A nod. “It’s been a while; I used to go a lot, early on when I joined—not just for the training regimens they made the recruits go through, but the extracurricular sessions too. I think…” Something clouded his expression. “I liked it. Being a part of a group. I guess it was innate—like, herd nature? I just felt right, being surrounded by others and working toward a common goal. Didn’t feel _good_ necessarily…” And Haruka supposed it wouldn’t, as such a concept would still have been foreign to Rin in his early years with the PPDC. “Just… _right_. Like it’s what I was meant to do.” His smile faltered a bit, chagrined. “It’s what I’m used to, at least; being part of a team.” It was a euphemistic way of looking at his life as a kaiju—and maybe that was part of being human, too: finding the best light to shine on a situation.

“…Are you disappointed you can’t ever go back? Rejoin them…?” He didn’t know why he’d just asked that—only that he couldn’t help wondering. It was one thing for Rin to regret, to _abhor_ the mission he’d been set—but another to turn his back on the very real bone-deep sense of _belonging_ that must have been a part of him before Haruka had torn him away. 

He could feel Rin’s eyes on him in the darkness, clearly perplexed. “Huh? You _saw_ the Anteverse—did it look like someplace anyone in their right mind would want to go back to?” A harsh snort. “Hell no, I’m not disappointed.” He flicked Haruka sharply across the forehead. “So stop asking ridiculous questions.”

“It _wasn’t_ —“ he began, but stopped himself, huffing indignantly. “It was _part_ of you—no one would blame you for missing it, even a little—”

“I don’t miss it,” Rin snapped shortly, then repeated the words, as if to reassure himself. “I _don’t_ —it just…feels weird. Like I’m missing a limb.” Here, he held a hand up before him and flexed and clenched the fingers in succession. “I feel…like something should be there, just out of sight, and I catch myself now trying to reach for it like a phantom limb…before I remember.” He pulled his arm back to his chest now, solemn. “…I’m used to there being something more than just _me_ , something…bigger. Not good, or bad, just— _more_. But I reach out now…” Here, he did so, fingers brushing feather-light across Haruka’s jawline, hanging at his chin before falling away. “…and you’re all I find.” 

And that had to be _terrifying_ , perhaps more so than the conscious knowledge of what he’d been party to—because Haruka didn’t have _half_ the history Rin had, hadn’t had a hand in even a fraction of the atrocities Rin had probably seen if not taken part in, and yet he still couldn’t imagine the blow he might be dealt if he lost the people, the places, the _connections_ he’d taken comfort in over the years. It wasn’t, as Rin explained, about anything inherently good or bad—it was familiarity, a sense of being right where he was meant to be. There was no love or hate when it came to something that was a _part_ of you. It was just… _how it was_.

And Rin no longer had that. Something lurched in his chest, and Haruka reached out with frantic, trembling fingers, clutching Rin’s hands in his own sweaty, desperate grip. “Is—that bad, though? That I’m all you find?” _Am I not enough?_ he heard distantly echo in some far corner of his mind, and while he couldn’t remember saying anything like that in recent memory, he wondered it all the same, sending the sentiment vibrating between them almost palpably.

Rin’s fingers clenched in fidgety reassurance, and he covered the clear discomfort in his voice with a rough laugh. “No—I mean, it’s not a bad thing, but…” He swallowed thickly. “…Are you sure you want to deal with me being all needy and bugging you for attention all the time?”

“How is that any different from how you usually are?”

Rin laughed a sharp, snorting chuckle—but when Haruka just cocked his head in confusion, genuinely not following, Rin seemed to realize he’d actually been _serious_ in the question, and bit out an acrid, “Asshole.”

Haruka took no offense, returning blithely, “Well it’s true.”

Rin huffed in mock irritation—then drew one of Haruka’s arms around to drape over his side, allowing a deep exhalation as he finally seemed ready to settle in to sleep. “ _Fine_. But you can’t complain, then.”

“I make no promises,” Haruka warned, fluffing he pillow beneath his head as he slid in closer, grateful for the warmth Rin offered. It might not be so wonderful, though, come summertime—even underground, the air would feel too close and heavy, and even Rin with his inexplicable penchant for romantic gestures wouldn’t be able to put up with this for much longer. 

Rin’s chuckle in response was low and coy. “None~?” He braced a knee suggestively between Haruka’s thighs, and his pointedly feigned efforts to find a comfortable sleeping position threatened to brush disturbingly close to areas Haruka would rather not deal with on the heels of so taxing a day. 

Haruka locked Rin’s knee between his own and braced a hand at Rin’s hip, stilling his squirming as he leaned in close and dropped his voice to a gruff rasp he hoped demonstrated his irritation well. “…Maybe one.”

“Oh?” Rin tipped his head forward, trying to brush noses and snorting in amusement when Haruka braced a hand between them to keep their distance, slowly sliding his palm flat over Rin’s chest and up the long, smooth line of neck to grip his chin for attention.

With lips just shy of brushing, he rumbled, “I’m going to wipe the floor with you in the Kwoon Room tomorrow.”

And for the first time in a very long time, Haruka slept unencumbered by dreams of any sort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this marks the end of the story formally! I'll be adding one final chapter that's really more of an epilogue (read: all of the fun stuff I've been waiting to get to), but it will mostly just be tying things up as everything settles down again. This was a ton of fun to write, and I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did!! I really love the world set up in the movie, and the whole pilot system just has so much potential, fic-wise, so I'm glad I got to make my contribution to the Free!dom in the form of a Sharkbait crossover fic :3 Thanks for reading, guys!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While rather lengthy, this chapter functions as a kind of epilogue, rounding out the story and giving our boys some well-deserved closure. I hope you've enjoyed!

He wound up having to dismiss the afternoon cadet class a half hour early because at some point, no number of threats to make them run 20 laps around the outer circuit of the Shatterdome was going to keep them from being distracted by the silent watch Rin was keeping in the alcove near the door. If it had been the first time, that would have been one thing—officers and visiting personnel from other Shatterdomes occasionally dropped by so that the Marshal could show off the rather impressive Combat regimen Haruka put the recruits through.

But this was the fifth time in as many days, with no introduction or explanation as to why Rin was monitoring the lessons, and most of the recruits in the class probably recognized him as a Ranger and were curious as anything about why he was mooning about the Kwoon Room instead of heading to the Jaeger bay to prep for an upcoming mission or, at the very least, giving them a lecture on which positions in the Jaeger bushido he’d found particularly useful in the field.

They would have to keep wondering, though, because Haruka doubted that the truth was going to be making rounds on the major international news outlets any time soon—not if Marshal Sasabe had anything to do with it, at least.

The relief he’d experienced on realizing that the Marshal could be reasonable—that whatever he’d seen, good or bad, in the Drift with Rin had reassured him he could put some measure of trust in Rin—had felt like a palpable wave washing over dry, sun-cracked skin, and he’d very nearly let his knees give out when the Marshal had just locked eyes with him on stepping out of the pons unit, held his gaze for a long, meaningful moment as if to say _Just this once_ , and looked away, calling for a LOCCENT tech to help unhook him and a copy of their Drift readouts.

They’d received formal allowance to return to their quarters 24 hours later—and if the Marshal knew about Makoto sneaking them a get-out-of-med-bay-early pass, he hadn’t mentioned it—but in the three days following, Rin had been quarantined from dawn to dusk in private debriefings with the Marshal and Amakata, spilling as many secrets as he could until the pair were satisfied. There was, it turned out, precious little he could offer on the Precursors themselves—even the kaiju masters had been smart enough to keep their pets at a distance, it seemed—but he had given them all he could on the biology of the kaiju, how the neural network functioned, and any weaknesses or points to be taken advantage of. He had never technically been a _true_ kaiju himself, standing stories tall like some costumed buffoon from any dozens of monster movies, but Amakata swore up and down that he was proving an invaluable resource.

While Haruka had been spared attendance past an initial show of face to give a full run-down of all he’d learned in their time Drifting, the debriefings had clearly taken a toll on Rin himself. “I feel like a bug under glass,” Rin had complained wearily one evening, and Haruka had reminded him that it was better than being dead. Rin had just shrugged as if to say _if you say so_ , clearly not convinced.

But in short order, they’d wrung all of the information they could out of Rin and released him on his own recognizance with orders to report immediately should his presence be requested as a second opinion. He wasn’t a free man, necessarily—but he wasn’t a prisoner, either; no more than anyone else in the Shatterdome, at least. He had private daily sessions with Amakata now—though Haruka had little notion of what they discussed in their time alone beyond the assumption that it had to do with kaiju biology, given her field. He supposed it was better having Amakata grill him with questions and take his temperature, though, than having Rin cut open on a lab table, rib cage splayed for K-science techs to root through.

But Rin hadn’t protested the figurative collar he’d been fitted with, and for all intents and purposes, he seemed to be once again an accepted member of the Shatterdome. Granted, if any other Shatterdome personnel ever found out about what had transpired over the course of the previous month or so, that peace would be summarily smashed to bits, so by mutual consent, all involved in the incident had agreed to work to keep everything under wraps.

The PPDC would surely not sit idly by and let a resource like Rin be squandered—nor would they be satisfied with letting him roam the halls as freely as if he were merely the Ranger he presented himself to be. He’d be locked away at best, subjected to cruel experiments or brutal torture at worst, if not simply executed outright as a liability. And that didn’t even touch the hot water Haruka and everyone else party to this cover-up would be in should this affair come apart at the seams.

So they’d filed reports—marked the Omega Free program as temporarily suspended pending new pilot acquisition as the Matsuoka-Nanase pair had proven less compatible than initially hoped, scribbled notes that Nanase was more valuable as a Fightmaster and Matsuoka had a promising career as an Assault Specialist before him, where his experience fighting and felling kaiju could be put to good use in training rising-star cadets. They’d been kicked out of their cushy temporary quarters and shuttled back to the Officers’ Wing—with rooms next to one another that they hadn’t yet managed to take full advantage of. Though not for lack of trying. 

Schedules had simply been hectic in the two weeks since ripping Rin free of the hive mind—a practically nonstop effort to pay off appropriate parties for their silence and ensure no flags were raised as the Omega Free project was shelved. They needn’t have worried, though, as the attention of the PPDC was quickly diverted from their seemingly failed mission when mere days after the incident, a Category IV heading for the east coast of the Philippines had collapsed in on itself without warning less than a hundred kilometers from shore, disintegrating into a bath of Kaiju Blue that contaminated the waters as far south as Indonesia. PPDC officials had gone on record to state that K-Science officers suspected the beast had been diseased, as it had been behaving erratically in its journey up from the breach, and appropriate measures had been taken to ensure that whatever had infected the alien wouldn’t contaminate the sea life or nearby coastal cities.

Haruka and Rin had shared an uncomfortable look sitting across from one another in the mess hall over dinner as all of the televisions in the room had begun to simultaneously broadcast the scene as it unfolded—clear evidence of the Precursors scrapping their now-useless army. Haruka wondered, distantly, if Rin had felt it—even an echo of that kill command. Rin had promised him, before, that when it came, Haruka wouldn’t feel a thing, it would just be a connection severed, like a telephone line being abruptly snipped—but that hadn’t really done anything to ease his anxiety.

It clearly hadn’t sat well with either of them, seeing how very closely they’d brushed death and crushing madness, and appetite spoiled, they’d retired silently to Haruka’s room for the remainder of the night, curled about one another like the very inky tentacles they’d barely managed to escape and feeding each other soothing reassurance that they were still alive, still whole. The Marshal’s, “Matsuoka—feeling all right today?” delivered as casually as a two-ton truck through a china shop right in the middle of the next morning’s briefing had been less than tactful but appreciated nonetheless, and when Haruka had offered him a supportive shoring up of their Thread, he’d received a pinched smile and ducked nod in return—all they’d been allowed as the Marshal had moved on to the next item of business on the agenda.

Haruka dismissed the roomful of cadets with a harsh reminder that they’d be meeting on the flight deck at surface level the following morning at 0700 for a 5k along the beachfront, busying himself with responding to messages that could easily be put off for later as he waited for the stragglers to finally leave the room heading for the showers. He knew he could use one himself—but Rin always requested a few practice bouts and at least a lap or five in the natatorium before letting Haruka seek his respite, so he’d have to bear the stench and uncomfortable slide of sweat-slick skin a bit longer.

“You keep distracting my cadets.”

Rin shrugged innocently. “You of all people should know I can’t help how terribly charming I can be.”

He wouldn’t even dignify that with a response. “Would it kill you to at least wait until I’ve finished a session before skulking about?”

“Hey—I wasn’t _skulking_ ,” Rin protested. “I was…observing.” To support this claim, he jerked his chin in Haruka’s direction as he strode forward, arms crossed over his chest. “You were favoring your left foot—a sprain?”

Haruka grimaced and glanced away—it still unsettled him, showing his weaknesses so easily. He’d had it pounded into him over his years with the PPDC that this was tantamount to death, after all. One wrong move—and a kaiju might take advantage of it. He’d never imagined how well-founded these warnings would prove to be. “Lost my footing getting out of the bath this morning; I meant to tape it at lunch—but haven’t had the time.”

“Mm,” Rin nodded, than strolled over to the equipment cabinet, yanking the doors open and rifling through the contents before pulling out a half-used roll of sports tape. “I suppose I can grant you a stay of execution, then, and spare your pride the beating it was about to take otherwise.”

Haruka frowned, following Rin’s slow slinking advance with an incredulous glare. “…I think maybe after we see to my ankle, we’ll need to get you to the medical bay to have your head checked—if you think there was any way you were going to win the bout I’m sure you came here to stupidly challenge me to.”

“Hey—” Rin protested with feigned hurt, settling down at Haruka’s foot and tearing off a strip of tape as he proceeded to gently wrap it. “In case you haven’t been keeping score—”

“I haven’t.”

“—I’ve won _two_ of the eleven matches in here. _Fightmaster_.” He raised a brow in triumph, as if this accomplishment were anything to be proud of and not something a Ranger would usually be skewered for and ordered to take two weeks’ unpaid leave to brush up his Jaeger bushido positions.

“Only because you fight dirty,” Haruka reminded coolly, his scalp still tender just behind his right ear where Rin had managed to grab a fistful of hair in his desperate flailing two days prior.

A smirk twitched at the corners of Rin’s lips as he returned innocently, “I’m afraid the concept of a clean fight is not a human notion with which I’m yet familiar—“

“Bull,” he snapped gruffly, then winced when Rin placed light pressure on his newly wrapped ankle, gaze fixed on Haruka glittering and predatory with unspoken threat. “…Cut it out,” he warned uncomfortably.

Rin instantly obeyed, releasing the ankle and dragging a finger teasingly along the sole of Haruka’s foot that caused him to jerk it back in reflex. “My point stands,” he continued more soberly. “Kaiju don’t have any concept of clean or dirty fighting—so while I’ll admit I find the Jaeger bushido a fascinating study…I must confess I’ve never seen its purpose.”

Haruka took a step back, placing weight on his ankle and feeling satisfied with the wrapping. “Because it’s not about fighting—it’s about self-discipline. And part of that discipline is training your mind and body to accept boundaries, rules. If you can win inside the cage, then you should be able to win outside it.”

“ _Should_ be able to,” Rin repeated, but he let the matter drop and retreated back into his usual easy demeanor. “Not that I need to fight dirty to beat you.”

“It’s cute that you actually believe that.” And before Rin could slip another comment in edge-wise, he quickly changed the subject. “How was your session with Amakata-sensei?”

Rin huffed as he eased back upright, slapping his pants to clean them of imagined dust—the Kwoon Room was immaculate; Haruka almost took the gesture as a personal affront—and began stretching his deltoids, an arm thrown over his chest. “I dunno. It was the usual stuff—personal history, what I knew about the cloning process for the rank-and-file kaiju, what I knew about the cloning process for _me_ , a hundred things I’ve told her before, more or less. I cut out when she went off on some tangent about how some kaiju can self-impregnate, though.”

Haruka choked violently on the long swig of water he’d just taken, and Rin sputtered with laughter and raised an elbow to stretch his triceps. He hastily wiped his lips, patting his face down with a sweat towel. “I hope you’re taking these sessions seriously. She’s only trying to help.”

Rin shrugged him off, unconcerned. “She thinks I ought to start seeing a Psych Analyst. Says she can only ensure I’m doing well in body—not mind.” He flicked a glance at Haruka, guarded smile almost daring him to make a crack like _I don’t think you’ve ever been okay in the mind_ , but Haruka remained silent, loath to give him the pleasure. At length, he continued more soberly, “…Though I’m not exactly keen to have Tachibana poking around in my head.”

“Makoto isn’t the only Psych Analyst—just the Chief one.”

“Sure—but he’s the only one with the clearance to know about me, I’m pretty sure.” Which, he had a point; in order for a Psych Analyst to do their job effectively, they would need full disclosure from their patient, which Rin could not spare. There was a pause, and Rin suggested mildly, “…Maybe you could be my Analyst.”

“Huh?” He blinked, then deepened his frown into one of disapproval. “I’m hardly qualified.”

Rin stepped forward with deliberation now, arms limber and supple after a good stretch as they swung at his side—and he didn’t pause his approach until he’d drawn uncomfortably close, head ducking down to brush his nose across the bridge of Haruka’s cheek as he leaned toward his ear. “After all we’ve been through? If _you’re_ not qualified to be inside me, who is?” He snickered with self-congratulatory mirth, clearly pleased with his suggestive language.

Haruka shivered, hands coming up reflexively to place space between them—and when Rin flashed him a look of mild offense, he pursed his lips and reminded, “Hardly the time or place.”

Rin snorted. “Don’t tell me you’ve got the same hangup about this place as you do the pool?”

“I hold classes here—”

“If you can call those _classes_. That group you just dismissed looks like they’d go down if a kaiju _looked_ at them fun—” But he didn’t get to finish, as Haruka dropped into a squat and swept his right leg out—wrapped ankle and all—to drop Rin to the ground. Rin gave a little yelp of surprise, coming down hard on his back with a soft _oof_ followed by a groan, and Haruka seamlessly slid over him, placing pressure on his stomach.

“…Don’t think that I need to be in peak condition to have you laid out flat.”

“…Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rin huffed with barely disguised discomfort, wincing. “Now who’s fighting dirty?”

“An unfortunate side effect of being permanently tethered to you. I pick up your bad habits. Either way, though—” He reached up and lightly slapped Rin’s cheek, mostly because he _could_ , and relished the frown of irritation he received in response. “—I’d get used to losing around me, if I were you. I’ve studied your file; I know all of your weaknesses and how best to exploit them.”

“You’ve _read up on me_? I’m _flattered_ , Haru-chan.”

“You would be,” he scoffed mildly, shifting his weight to let Rin right himself again—but was stopped when Rin grabbed him by the wrist and refused to release him even after he gave a meaningful tug.

“Maybe I should do the same to you,” he suggested idly, though there was playful threat in his tone.

“You could,” Haruka returned, unruffled, “but it wouldn’t do you much good. I’m not the Fightmaster for nothing—I’ve taken great pains to ensure I’m well rounded with no particular weaknesses to exploit.”

“Of course you have,” Rin huffed, rolling his eyes, and he shifted his grip to stroke a thumb over Haruka’s pulse point, decidedly less interested in restraint as merely maintaining contact—and Haruka felt the blood thrumming through his veins just beneath the skin Rin brushed run a touch hotter. “I suppose I could see my way to spending more time on my back with you over me, though…” He jerked his grip—and Haruka’s wrist in it—sharply, here, sending Haruka toppling forward to support himself with his free hand on the mat. “And I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to the other way around, either…” He punctuated this with a deliberate brush of fingers along the stripe of exposed abdomen that Haruka had failed to cover as his practice tank hung in low folds around him, muscles twitching at the contact.

He swallowed, found his voice, and allowed steadily, “…You’re welcome to try.”

Rin’s lips quirked upward in amusement, teeth flashing white. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Glad to see your hearing wasn’t damaged in the fall.”

“ _Asshole_.” The quip was delivered with a smile, though, and Haruka regarded him quizzically, thoughts coalescing in his mind for the first time—because they’d kissed (and _kissed_ ) and tussled and flirted (well, _Rin_ liked to flirt, mostly because he seemed to conflate trash talk with flirting, which meant every time a challenge presented itself, Rin presented _him_ self) and touched—but just touched, because there’d always been _something_.

A late-night summons to the K-science labs, long-running meetings discussing the Omega Free practice runs from _before_ everything had gone to shit, prelim reviews of promising new candidates who might be able to step into the Conn-Pod Haruka and Rin had been forced from, Kwoon Room classes, all _manner_ of testing and debriefings that made it hard to find a moment to sit down, relax, and absorb everything that had happened. Made it hard to treat _this_ as more than a momentary distraction, just something to indulge in in those moments of down time before they one or both of them had to dash off to their next engagement.

It helped absolutely nothing that the closest relationship Haruka had ever had with anyone had been his friendship with Makoto—and he would hesitate to even describe his relationship with Rin as that of ‘friends’, largely because…he still felt like he didn’t know anything about Rin. Which, he supposed should have been funny, because Rin had a point: he was supposed to be the one more intimately familiar with Rin (in _every_ sense of the word) than anyone else…and yet he felt so _ignorant_. He knew that if he asked, Rin would speak (probably wouldn’t _shut up_ even), but the _asking_ was the hardest part. It was why he and Makoto worked so well together; Haruka never needed to ask—because Makoto always knew. And yet even with linked consciousnesses, Rin still seemed incapable of sparing Haruka the discomfort of having to voice all of the questions and ponderings rolling around inside his mind.

“…What?”

Haruka groped for words, struggling to remember the conversation he’d just abandoned. “Nothing, just…wondering if you even know _how_ …”

“How to…?” He trailed off, waiting for Haruka to clarify—before finally picking up the thread of conversation and laughing uncomfortably as realization set in. “Ah. What’s that Ryuugazaki’s always going on about? ‘I’ve completely mastered the theory’?” He shrugged, a bit self-deprecatingly—which looked foreign on him, for obvious reasons. “It was never something I was really…preoccupied with. Before.” Haruka’s face must have betrayed his skepticism, for Rin continued, “I mean—I’m more or less physically human, so sure, I got…you know, urges and shit sometimes. But it was like taking a piss—just another one of those irritating things I had to take care of from time to time.” He sniffed and glanced away, relinquishing his grip on Haruka’s wrist and allowing the fingers that had been teasing Haruka’s exposed belly to drop back to the floor. “…You?”

Haruka frowned in irritation, “What do you think?” but immediately regretted the curt response, realizing that Rin had not been teasing but genuinely _curious_ , concerned even. “…Sorry.” He lifted up onto his knees and gingerly eased to his feet again, wary of testing his ankle too much before it had had an evening to rest, and extended a hand down to help Rin up as well.

“Well I never know _what_ to think with you sometimes,” Rin protested with feigned petulance, but accepted the hand. “I mean, for all I know, you and Tachibana could have—”

“We didn’t. We never.”

Rin flashed him a strained smile. “…Yeah, I figured. It’s just hard to accept that when you still seem closer with him than…” And he trailed off, obviously realizing how ridiculous it must sound to suggest that Haruka might have a closer relationship with his friend of 20-odd years than the person presently occupying a small corner of his own mind. Then again—was he wrong? Hadn’t Haruka just been wondering how it was that he seemed to know so little about Rin when his mind _ought_ to have been quite literally an open book?

What were they, even? Not really friends, not quite lovers, definitely no longer Drift Partners—and yet the lack of any proper term for how he felt about Rin didn’t stop Haruka from being quite certain that there was something there, some tangible _emotion_ that was dark and heavy and curling, like those vicious tendrils reaching out to crush. Perhaps that was what made him so gun-shy: concern that if he gave himself over to this, if he let himself really _think_ about it, he’d smother Rin—or rip him apart, as surely as those tentacles had meant to do.

Maybe the trick, then, was not thinking about it at all.

“I like you.” Simple, to the point, unambiguous. Perhaps not all-encompassing, but they had time, now, to flesh out the details.

Rin blinked at him a few times in quick succession before sputtering in amusement, “…Uh, I like you too?” Haru could feel his features relaxing with relief, because there was something to be said about _hearing_ it, even if it hadn’t exactly been the kind of love confession written about in novels and manga—cherry blossoms blowing about on some unbidden breeze, background fading to white as all else disappeared leaving only the lovers sharing a world of their own. “…Was it not obvious?” Rin continued awkwardly, a twinge of apprehension in his voice, as if he were just now entertaining the idea that he’d built up a relationship between them in his own head and it was now in very real danger of crashing down around them. “I mean, I was kind of ready to die for you, so I assumed…”

And of a sudden, the weight of what Rin had sacrificed came down heavy on Haruka’s shoulders—not because he felt that Rin blamed him, but because he felt, still, like he _ought_ to. Because Haruka had been there, had seen and experienced it all, vicariously at first and then directly, in the flesh, inside his own _mind_. 

_”You’re enough.”_

He didn’t remember Rin ever saying anything like that, yet the words echoed in his mind with Rin’s voice, carrying a distant glimmer of recognition, like something that had happened long ago that he’d forgotten about until this moment and couldn’t quite recall the context. “…I wouldn’t blame you. If you regretted it.”

They’d had this conversation before—almost every day, in some form or another—and Haruka wondered how long it would take before Rin finally grew fed up with needing to reassure Haruka that humanity wasn’t a second-choice, merely something he’d never realized he could want.

Rin sighed, exhaustion mingling with resignation, and he stepped close, leaning forward to settle his forehead against Haruka’s shoulder as he breathed in deeply. Haruka imagined he must reek of sweat and adrenaline from the day’s classes—but if Rin minded this, he didn’t show it. “You keep asking me—if I miss it, or if I regret becoming human, or if I’d want to go back if I could.” He didn’t respond—because it was merely an observation. “Do you seriously think that, maybe if you keep pressing, one of these days I’ll say _yes_ and confirm your worst fears?”

He wanted to protest—but the knowledge that Rin could read him far more easily than he could read Rin stayed him, and he instead muttered, “…I said I wouldn’t blame you.”

Rin lifted his head, staring into Haruka’s eyes with a hard, determined gaze. “…Fine, you want the truth? You want to know if I regret it?” When Haruka didn’t speak, honestly unsure if he did or not, Rin continued, more hesitantly now, “…I don’t _know_. I don’t think I can ever really be sure, even—because I wouldn’t be able to regret at _all_ if I hadn’t followed you. I’d _never know_ what I was missing, by choosing to stay, so…I can’t answer that question. And I wish you’d stop asking.” He firmed his chin and added. “…You say you wouldn’t blame me, if I wanted to go back—so stop trying to blame me for wanting to _stay_.”

Haruka felt well and properly chastised, feeling his stomach bottom out. “I—didn’t mean it like…” It was the last thing he wanted—he just felt like Rin deserved to have some _choice_ , after being deprived of any for so long, and deep down, having human emotion forced upon him seemed like yet another way of chaining him down.

“I— _dammit_ , Nanase, stop that…” Rin muttered, a hint of panic in his voice as he drew Haruka to his chest and wrapped arms around his neck, the full body contact and slide of warm skin against skin doing wonders to settle the nervous tension. Haruka supposed he ought to feel a bit guilty, having yet again failed to consider how echoes of his own fractured emotions might be affecting Rin, but he was too used to having to be on guard against the onslaught of others’ emotions. Rin would just have to deal with things like this until Haruka learned to control himself. “I know you didn’t mean it like that—I know you never _mean_ to be a stubborn dick, that it’s just part of your charm.”

“Look who’s talking,” Haruka mumbled, bringing his hands up to splay over Rin’s back and clutch at the rumpled windbreaker he wore.

“How d’you know that’s not you rubbing off on me?”

“…I think you’d know if I were rubbing off on you.”

Rin laughed sharply, high and amused, and squeezed tighter. “Okay, that was _definitely_ me rubbing off on you.” After a moment’s silent embrace, though, he muttered tightly, “…You weren’t my second choice. You’re not something I’m settling for. I _chose_ you. Freely.”

And that, Haruka supposed, had been all he’d ever wanted to hear—affirmation, in words he could understand, that even if it hadn’t been by their own mutual volition that they’d wound up here together…it was by that volition that they would stay together.

“…Are you done for the day?” When he pulled back to study Rin’s face, he caught the casual pondering expression that said he was silently reviewing his schedule in his head.

“Mm—I think? The Marshal’s supposed to be sending some materials to review for tomorrow afternoon’s briefing with the Osaka Shatterdome officials, but it’s nothing I can’t put off until five minutes before the meeting starts, I guess.” He cocked his head and raised his brows. “Why, feeling like making it a Mackerel Wednesday?”

But realization quickly washed his features over with blank lassitude as Haruka shifted in place and let his hands slide down from Rin’s back to his hips, gently massaging the bony jut he found there. “…Not exactly.”

“I thought—“ Rin started, before his throat went dry and he had to clear it. “You said you didn’t want to…here…”

“I don’t,” he confirmed meaningfully. “And we can’t.” And this time it was Haruka who had to draw their attention to the cameras stationed around the perimeter of the Kwoon Room.

Rin snickered softly, following his gaze, and bit his lip as he shook his head. “For all I know, they’ve got my room bugged; you know, _just in case_.” He probably meant it half as a joke—but he wasn’t being entirely paranoid. Rin had been given a suspiciously long leash and free rein to move about the Shatterdome; the Marshal may have been inside his head for a few moments, but obviously it hadn’t been long enough to completely dispense with doubt. Bugging Rin’s room would be almost _expected_.

“…Then we won’t go to yours.” A simple solution to a simple problem; he couldn’t be entirely sure his room wasn’t under surveillance as well—but the Marshal ought to know well what he would find if he poked his nose where it didn’t belong.

Rin tried—and failed—to keep his grin from going goofy with repressed anticipation, and Haruka wondered distantly how long it would take him to wrestle these new emotions under control so that they no longer leaked so gaudily onto his features. He hoped a long time; Rin was much easier to deal with when he wasn’t hiding everything under a mask—and it was more enjoyable this way as well, not having to rely on the Ghost Drift or his own abilities to understand how Rin was feeling, because it was splashed all over his face like red paint.

“Mm…” Rin cocked his head and muttered coyly, “sure you don’t wanna take a swim first? I’m pretty sure the acquacising class lets out at 7…”

And Haruka hadn’t considered it—but the thought was tempting. Not long, maybe a half hour. An hour tops. A few laps would keep his muscles limber, and the idea of what Rin’s skin would taste like fresh from the pool, the aseptic scent of chlorine clinging to his hair, the chill the air would have that would force them to seek warmth through friction and activity…

“ _Oi—_ ” Rin protested gruffly, pinching him sharply on the arm with a frown. “Don’t actually _consider_ it.”

“I wasn’t,” Haruka reassured flatly, mostly because he hadn’t been; not seriously, at least. He preferred swimming—and bathing, and enjoying the water period—without distraction. In the mood he was at the moment…he wouldn’t be able to do that. Especially not if he paused long enough to consider what waited after they’d finished their few laps in the natatorium.

“Liar,” Rin snorted, sliding fingers around Haruka’s wrist to tug gently. “And I really need to teach you to stop letting shit like that flow over to me.” When Haruka gave him a quizzical look, not following, he added in a rougher voice, “If you’re gonna think about that kind of thing around me, the least you could do is wait ’til we’re somewhere we can _act_ on it.” He smile tightened. “Now I’ve gotta walk down three corridors at half mast.”

Biting back the urge to glance down out of innocent curiosity, Haruka reminded simply, “You brought it up.”

“Yeah, and then _you_ brought _it_ up. So we’re even.” He tugged more insistently now, and Haruka let himself be led toward the door, snatching up the strap to his pack as they passed his desk.

“Is that all it takes to undo you? A few lewd thoughts?”

“Do I look ‘undone’?” Rin scoffed, putting his shoulder against the heavy steel door as they stepped back out into the corridor.

Haruka paused in place, raking a glance quickly over Rin from head to toe. Not a hair out of place, the locks still in want of a trimming bunched into a band at the nape of his neck, and angling his hips awkwardly with a stilted gait that said he hadn’t been exaggerating earlier about Haruka’s lurid thoughts leeching into his own mind. He supposed Rin was just too used to soaking in any and all thoughts and knowledge from those he was connected to—which meant learning to block or at least filter would be something they both needed to work on. He doubted Rin would long appreciate being connected so intimately to someone as misanthropic as Haruka, and he certainly valued his own privacy. Maybe he needed to speak to Makoto about this.

But he didn’t say any of this—because it wasn’t important right now. What was important was wiping that look of cocky superiority from Rin’s face, which he promptly did with, “No. But you look like you want to be.”

The grin slipped away, and he didn’t need their Thread to feel the thrumming wave burst of arousal, like a boulder dropped into the middle of a deep pond, plummeting to the bottom. Rin squared his shoulders and firmed his jaw. “…Race you to your quarters.”

* * *

Rin had urged him, before, not to _think_ so hard about what they did—to just _drift_ , and since he still couldn’t shake the sense that he owed Rin something, some kind of compensation for deserting and joining the humans, joining _him_ , he did just that. He didn’t stop to think about who ought to make the first move, or if they should eat first or put it off to later, or if they should set some ground rules before things got too heady for them to even think straight—though admittedly, he also neglected to do any of these things because it left more opportunity for _something_ to come up and interrupt them, like an urgent summons from Amakata-sensei or Makoto inviting them to the mess hall for dinner.

Instead, he dropped his bag at the door, and before even waiting for the sharp _clang_ of the bolt sliding into place, he had his fingers clenched in Rin’s jacket to tug him close breathlessly and his tongue sharp and probing, forcing Rin’s lips apart as he vaulted over foreplay and into territory much simpler and cleaner, where there was no dance or effort necessary to ensure they were well and truly ‘in the mood’. Just desperation and hunger and eagerness to finally indulge, dispensing with clothing and masks, both physical and imagined.

He wondered if it was easier for Rin this way too—less focus on emotions he might not be entirely comfortable in dealing with just yet, and more giving in to instinct and passion and drive, qualities as natural in humans as in any other animal. Maybe that was what he’d meant by _just drift_ : don’t let logic and thinking get in the way of something you feel in your bones to be right, to be _necessary_ , and they’d both waited too long already to finally be fully and completely bare before one another.

He’d heard it said that there was a certain freedom that came with open, frank honesty, and he ached to be very, _very_ honest and upfront about _what he wanted_ right now, and to hear the same from Rin in return.

“Ha—aru…” Rin whined weakly, breathing labored and clearly growing weary of the searching kisses being pulled from his lips, and Haruka felt a heaviness as Rin leaned into him, weight shifting and threatening to bring them both down. There were suddenly too many layers of clothes between them, too many folds and laces and zips preventing bare, raw appreciation, and Haruka took three measured steps back until his knees knocked against the thin mattress of his cot, sending him down with Rin standing flushed and puffy-lipped before him.

He traced the elastic hem of the pants Rin wore—a thin jogging suit that was far more casual than Rangers were generally expected to present themselves in, but Haruka supposed this was just his way of flipping the bird at the PPDC now that he no longer had the thrill of _actually_ undermining their operation. ‘Half mast’ had by now turned into a full-fledged erection, the heavy outline visible against the thin fabric of his pants, and Haruka traced it with his eyes curiously—not quite sure how exactly to proceed from here but certain it involved _this_.

His thoughts drifted back, now, to that evening in the bath, before everything had unfurled and come to light, with knees straining where they braced against the tile and backs stiff and straight, lips sliding together as their hands flew over each other's cocks as they raced to see who could get who off faster—who'd won then? Haruka couldn't remember—and the white pleasure flowing from one into the other and back again like a closed circuit charged with far more energy than it was meant to withstand. They always pushed their boundaries with one another, and it would probably burn them one of these days, but just now, he only wanted to reclaim everything he'd felt in that moment—all his senses arcing in Rin's direction like water sliding down a drain: the steam-blurred sight of his hair, dark and heavy with moisture; the taste of sweat and soap on his skin mingled with the flavor of his kiss that was quickly becoming familiar and heady; the scent of clean soap and thick humid air filling their lungs like a drug; the sounds of Rin keening and whining, something that in any other context would have annoyed but just now flipped a _switch_ that hadn't been touched before; and the _feel_ —the feel, the touch of Rin's cock slick with his leaking and soapy residue, how warm and heavy it had felt in his hand but not uncomfortably so, Rin's fingers pinching at his shoulder and digging into the muscle, and a mark, a dark welt left unconsciously (or not?) on his neck. 

Everything he'd _loved_ about that one moment—and he now understood that it could be _better_. That Rin had still been holding back, that he hadn't yet received Rin's _everything_. He would not wait any longer.

He slid his hands up over the back of Rin's thighs, palms splayed wide as he guided Rin forward a shaky step and glanced upward, waiting for a sign. Rin knew what he wanted— _had_ to, because even if Haruka had known how to effectively block his thoughts from leaking over the Thread, he wouldn't have tried just now. He _wanted_ Rin to feel this, the full force of his everything, and wanted to receive the same in return.

Rin's cheeks were flushed, red welts that pinked his ears and nose as well, and in the muffled silence of the room, it wasn't difficult to pick up the hitch in his breathing, but he kept a steady, thin smile on his lips. "...Sometimes you're way too easy to read, Nanase."

Haruka frowned, unused to such accusations. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Never." He reached out and curled a clump of hair behing Haruka's ear, like a parent to a child. "Enough things are difficult with you that I've come to appreciate the times when I know exactly what you want."

Haruka jerked his chin forward, defiant. "You think you know what I want?"

" _What_ —and _how_." And unbidden, images and urges coiled hot in his mind—his hips flush against the back of Rin's thighs, arm thrown around Rin and jerking him to completion, faces contorted with effort and release. Haruka jerked back, barely restraining himself from scrambling back across the bed, because stirring as the notion was, _he_ hadn't been the one to plant it in his own mind, and the unpleasant sensation of foreign thoughts and emotions being passed off as his own was still an uneasy reminder of times when those thoughts and emotions had not been so _welcome_. Rin must have sensed this, for he had the good graces to at least look a bit abashed at his actions, wincing as he soothed, "Sorry—I'm not exactly on top of my game right now..."

Haruka ran a hand through his hair with one hand, the images still pulsing in his mind but growing fainter with each pass, like drumbeats fading into the distance, and he nodded, muttering, "So we jerked off in the bath together and suddenly you know what I want in bed?"

He'd glanced to the side, and so couldn't see the expression on Rin's face, but from his tone, he could imagine it: "Well, no, I—just...does that mean you _...don't_ want to...?"

He nearly had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping _Of course I want to_ , because there was no need to give Rin something more to feel cocky about—and after a moment, Rin's declaration sank in: _how_ he wanted it. His expression turned quizzical, a touch of wariness hanging at the edges of his features. "...Do you _...want_ me to, then?" Because wasn't that strange? Wasn't it the nature of a human male to want to mount and thrust and indulge in all of those primal, animalistic urges to claim and mark? Shouldn't Rin, far less human and far more _animal_ than most, feel that instinct _tenfold_? Haruka liked to think he wasn't bound by such primitive shackles—but Rin stirred something in the pit of his stomach that was not unpleasant at all, and he wanted those five senses primed again, like before. Wanted to _make it happen_ himself this time. 

Rin just snorted softly, though, the corners of his lips twitching upward in poorly disguised amusement. "...Humans have such weird hangups about sex. I don't think I'll ever understand it."

Haruka's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Says the guy who until just recently saw getting off as akin to urinating."

"Hey—take away the emotion, and it _is_. Just another physical urge." He shrugged. "Which is why I don't get why it should matter—or why you should find it so unbelievable I might want you to have what you want. No strings attached." He took a step back and rolled a shoulder to slide out of his jacket, letting it flop to the floor as he unlaced the tie on his jogging pants. "It's...like a Drift—just the left hemisphere and right hemisphere. No better, no worse; no superior, no subservient. While we're here, doing this with each other, you'll have things you're in charge of handling...and I'll have things I'm in charge of. Simple."

Haruka wondered if that was the kaiju parts of Rin shining through, distilling such an emotionally complex act down into its basic elements—or if this was just Rin's own personal take on the whole affair. He couldn't claim it didn't hold some allure, though; he was always up for taking the easy way out, after all. The fewer annoyances, the better. 

The pants pooled at the floor in a soft _fwump_ , and Haruka flicked a gaze over as Rin stepped into his immediate field of vision again, filling his sight with bare, hairless leg (did he _shave_?) and gray boxer-briefs stained with a wetspot just where his cock was resting. "So, what do you want?" He cupped Haruka's chin fondly. "If you ask dirty, I might just let you."

Haruka batted the hand away with barely restrained irritation, wrapping his fingers around the wrist to jerk Rin forward until he had one knee up on the mattress, straddling Haruka, and looking far more shocked than he should have been if he'd _really_ been expecting this. "I want...you to get what _you_ want." He still needed this, still needed to know that everything they did— _everything_ , from a lap around the natatorium to a match in the Kwoon room to turning Mackerel Friday into Mackerel Monday-Wednesday-Friday—was something Rin did because he _wanted to_ , not because he felt he owed Haruka anything, or because he was simply going along with Haruka's lumbering, childish demands. He knew he wasn't easy to get along with—it still baffled him how Makoto had managed to put up with him for this long—but just once, just this _one_ relationship...he wanted to be the one to _give_. Wanted the _other_ person to be selfish. Or—wanted to be selfish _together_. A Drift: sharing the burden.

Rin snorted softly, amusement more genuine and fond now, and he draped his free arm lazily over Haruka's shoulder, ducking down and cocking his head to the side to lean in close. His lips brushed lightly against Haruka's own as he spoke, and his voice was thick with tempting promise. "Then I want to come undone." Then he added in a steadier voice as he pulled away just far enough to be sure Haruka could focus on his eyes, "Though I feel I should warn you that it's gonna take more than lurid thoughts to do so."

His response was to fall backwards onto the bed, tugging Rin forward to straddle him properly—before rolling onto his side to place Rin on his back, holding him in place with weight on his stomach as he stripped off his shirt and tried to figure out how to wriggle out of his pants without upsetting their position. It was best to keep his mind on the here and now, after all, because if he let his thoughts wander...he'd start to recall Rin's claim of having 'completely mastered the theory' and how he couldn't even boast _that_ much, his familiarity with matters of human sexuality not extending much further than what you picked up as a soldier or a teenage boy around others your own age. The basics were simple enough—and even that was largely just giving over to instinct—but...he didn't want to hurt Rin, and he would rather not embarrass _himself_ either, if it could be at all helped.

The sound of a zip unfurling called him back, and he hitched a breath as Rin helped ease his pants down over his hips.  "You won't screw it up. In fact, I'm pretty sure 'screwing' is the whole point..." And Haruka must have looked like he wanted to protest for Rin continued, "Focus, Nanase; I'll be making a full critique later. Maybe I'll feel compelled to share with Tachibana, since you seem to think I ought to be spending more time with him as my Psych Analyst."

Haruka huffed, knowing that Rin was only trying to distract him with his usual incessant goading and prodding—but it was working, and he quickly shimmied out of the pants and dropped them by the wayside, letting his hips fall against Rin's as he brushed alongside Rin's cock, his forehead braced against Rin's collarbone. The air was growing close, and Rin's stuttering gasp as Haruka rubbed against him sounded almost like it was inside his own head. They needed to get naked—right now. He didn't want to come like this but was in very immediate danger of doing so, the slow buildup from the Kwoon Room threatening to undo him far more quickly than he might otherwise have lasted had he started cold. Rin must have had the same idea, for he cursed softly in that language that Haruka felt he ought to recognize but didn't and shoved Haruka away, twisting to the side and shoving a hand between them as he worked himself out of his underwear. Haruka rose to his knees, doing the same and trying not to watch Rin too closely as he struggled to awkwardly tug off his boxer briefs which had caught on his stiff erection. He might have been tempted to laugh at the sight, the tension of the situation leaving him feeling as if he was on a high, but he managed to keep control, and in short order, they'd managed to strip every thread from their bodies, left with little choice now but to charge ahead.

He'd requisitioned a small travel tube of lotion from the Commissary—the only thing that wouldn't rouse too much suspicion—and had a supply of prophylactics still in an unopened box in the drawer at his bedside. Fraternization was generally frowned upon, but war was war, and no one was under the mistaken idea that soldiers wouldn't seek solace with one another under such stressful conditions. He tossed the lotion on the bed with one hand, reaching for the box of condoms as well—when Rin's grip tight about his wrist stayed him. "You want...me to get what I want, right...?" And, likely inviting the wrath of every health officer in the Shatterdome, Haruka slid the drawer shut again.

Rin kept his grip on Haruka's wrist, tugging him up to contiue the kisses they'd started in the entryway, and they let the slow, languid stroke of lip and tongue take on an easy rhythm, allowing ardour to cool sufficiently that they wouldn't go off at the first brush of skin against bare cock. The almost eerie sensation of heat and building passion bouncing back and forth along their Thread in a constant circuit urged them forward, neither wanting to break the cycle, until it was difficult to tell which emotions were Haruka's and which were Rin's—and when Haruka clipped off the top of the lotion tube, fingers delicately maneuvering the tube one-handed to spurt into his palm, they both released a low hiss at the chill before Haruka had even touched Rin.

"You'd...better warm that shit up before you stick anything inside me..." Rin warned breathily, words nearly fumbled on kiss-swollen lips, and Haruka responded by ignoring the warning, swiping a finger over the balls that hung tight and heavy just below Rin's cock and tracing the sensitive perineum in apology when Rin jerked with a hiss, fixing a wide-pupiled glare on Haruka. " _Asshole_."

"I'll get to that."

Rin rolled his eyes and spread his legs wider, giving Haruka room to work as he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. He'd always appreciated Rin's form on an aesthetic level—muscles firm and toned where Haruka's were less so and chest infuriatingly wider with equally impressive shoulders that spoke less of genetics and more of hard work; they probably would have been of a size at children, but life as a Ranger necessitated a certain training regimen that likely put Haruka's Kwoon Room sessions to shame in intensity. Knowing that someone so _powerful_ and _beautiful_ wanted nothing more than to be here, with Haruka, in any way he could have him...was enough to swell an ego fit to bursting, and certainly a few other things as well.

A twitch of an eyebrow and soft grunt that quickly was quashed were the only signs of any discomfort as Haruka traced a finger at Rin's entrance, applying a generous layer of lotion before easing in. It was warm, tight—not how he'd imagined, since he'd never gone so far as to _imagine_ , but certainly putting thoughts into his mind now that he knew he couldn't blame on Rin. _"I suppose I could see my way to spending more time on my back with you over me,"_ Rin had admitted before, and Haruka shuddered at the thought of what it might _feel like_ , tighter than any grip he could give himself, warm as a hot spring, and slick and welcoming.

"You better not pop before you get inside me—stop thinking about shit like that and _hurry up_."

Haruka was jerked roughly back to the present, glancing down and realizing his daydreams had stalled his efforts at preparation, earning him complaints from his partner. "Sorry," he mumbled, a bit embarrassed. "I was..."

"I _know_ what you were doing," Rin snapped, and Haruka only now realized that it wasn't merely irritation sharpening his words but _unfulfillment_ ; Rin was hard, hot, and bothered—and Haruka wasn't helping him. "I told you—stop thinking and just _do it_. It's a joke that I'm getting more action _inside_ your head than outside." He brought his thighs up to lock Haruka in, giving a short, shallow thrust that pushed himself down further onto Haruka's finger.

"...I have to prepare—"

"No shit," Rin groused, but it came out more of a whine, and Haruka felt a pang of disappointment when Rin reached down to brush fingers meaningfully along his own shaft, a clear indication that Haruka was taking too long. "But I'm not one of those kitschy little ceramic figurines the Marshal keeps in his office—"

"He— _what_?"

With his free hand, Rin reached up and cupped his fingers along the back of Haruka's neck, pulling him close and holding his gaze. "—so I'm not gonna break. Get your head in the game—or I'll do it for you." And despite his curiosity piquing, desperate to know what Rin might mean by _that_ , he squared his jaw and dropped his gaze, drawing his finger out before adding a second, pausing a moment to let the sensation sink in before methodically continuing. Rin had made it clear he didn't want to linger on this part, and while he might be tempted to tease, he'd promised Rin he could have what he wanted this time— _this time_ —and so such indulgences would have to be put off until later.

Rin quickly lost interest—or ability to concentrate, rather—in stroking himself, and in short order he was fisting the bedsheets as he fought to keep his breathing even, huffing out short, sharp grunts as Haruka worked him with detachment, more interested in taking in the expressions flitting across Rin's features than in the act itself. It was strange; he'd seemed so in control, so collected at first blush—every inch the cocky Ranger he'd been presented as—but it had been a steady downhill slide since then, culminating with Rin here, in his bed, straining against the hand Haruka now braced on his hip to keep Rin from rising up to meet him every time he drew his fingers away and cursing softly in a language Haruka couldn't understand, intermingled with more familiar expletives and Haruka's own name. Humanity had well and truly done a number on Rin, and in a dark corner of his mind, Haruka very much did not regret what he'd inadvertently been responsible for.

He hastily withdrew his fingers and began working himself, grateful for the lotion's still slight chill from storage as it helped to cool his cresting desire; Rin would likely find it less than amusing if he climaxed before he'd even found his seat, and he was quite done with making this experience anything less than perfect for Rin. Perhaps it was that strange _romantic_ side of Rin's that showed itself at the oddest moments, seeping into Haruka now and leaving him a mess of contradictions. Rin brought out the very best and worst in him, he was starting to realize, and he could only hope that he did the same in return. 

Legs tucked underneath him, he lined himself up, marveling silently at the contrast of his cock, flushed dark with blood and arousal, against the pale skin along the back of Rin's thighs and ass, and where he gripped the flesh to ease Rin's legs further apart to improve his position, his fingers left pink marks. The welt Rin had given him weeks before had long since faded, but in moments like this, he could understand why Rin had done it in the first place—even if no one else could see it, there was a certain thrill to be had in knowing you'd marked someone with your sign.

He rubbed his palms suggestively over the inside of Rin's thighs before sliding up and over his abdominals, resting just at the hip with his tip just settled at Rin's entrance, and before he could open his mouth to ask permission, urgency and invitation surged into him, pulling him forward with what felt like almost _physical_ demand, Rin's fingers knotting in the Thread to _jerk_ Haruka into action and drive. He stifled a surprised little grunt of his own, pressing in and down and _through_ in a single long movement without stopping as everything grew instantly too _tight_ and _hot_ and _slick_ around him. His fingers tightened on Rin's hips, nails leaving half-moons in the flesh that would surely still be there come morning, and he gasped with a raw whelp as he jerked Rin forward in time with a meaningful little snap of his hips—and suddenly everything went still.

His breathing was shallow and stilted, and Rin had his eyes clenched shut and brows drawn, having worried his lip near to bleeding. He wondered if Rin had actually meant to goad Haruka into sliding in all at once, or if it had just _happened_ , their consciousnesses caught unawares by baser instincts charging forward to drive the pace. Whatever the cause, the end result was Haruka, buried almost _painfully_ deep, still struggling to get his bearings while Rin blinked away the stars from his vision and gasped deeply, silently. Everything took on a sharp ringing, and when it all came back together again, settling into the familiar loud silence of the Shatterdome, Haruka had eased his grip, hands braced with palms splayed against the mattress to achieve a more comfortable angle, and Rin was taking deep, even breaths with some effort, fingers white-knuckled and lip nearly split. 

"...Maybe I should've asked Amakata-sensei about this at some point," he eventually managed, staring up at the ceiling as he blinked away tears. " _Fuck_."

"You're the one who said to give you what you want."

"No, I said to _make me come undone_. Which I guess if you were trying to _rip me apart with your cock_ then you're well on your way." Something like hurt must have passed across Haruka's features, for Rin was immediately contrite, wiping a hand over his face to smudge the tears that were collecting at the edges of his eyes. "Dammit—sorry, just, it's not exactly how I imagined."

He almost asked _how did you imagine it?_ until he recalled the images Rin had placed in his mind earlier, and felt stupidly like...he'd let Rin down. Schooling his features to give nothing away, he furrowed his brows and shifted to pull out—wringing a hiss of protest from Rin.

"Sh—shit, not yet, don't move yet..."

Brows still cinched, he hesitantly asked, "I...you want to keep going...?"

Rin snorted in derisive amusement—before realizing that Haruka had been genuinely curious in his question; things weren't going right, and there was no 'rule' he was aware of that said once you started, you couldn't stop. They could always regroup and try again—and again, and again. "Of course," Rin reasoned, voice tinged with confusion. "I still haven't gotten what I wanted." He closed his eyes and took another deep breath before releasing it slowly. "What, you thought it had to be _perfect_ or some romantic tripe like that?"

"No," Haruka protested. "But _you_ did."

"I did _n_ —" Rin started hotly, before wincing and correcting himself, "— _Not_...realize humanity was this fucking ridiculous."

"Yeah," Haruka allowed with a bitter smile. "It kind of sucks."

"It does," Rin agreed sourly. "So at least share some perks with me?" He clarified which _perks_ he meant with a slow, shallow roll of his hips that seated Haruka proper again, his thighs brushing just against the back of Rin's. "For what it's worth...I'm glad."

"Glad?" Haruka managed through grit teeth, trying to keep control over himself when Rin seemed intent on ending this far more quickly than either of them wanted.

Two arms slid up to wrap around Haruka's neck, thumbs idly massaging his nape as Rin drew him down and close. "I don't know if I regret it or not...but I know I'm happy, right now. And I like that feeling. I like how I feel when I'm with you."

Haruka cocked his head, pausing a moment before brushing Rin's lips to tease, "...Romantic, right?" And jumping on the moment, with Rin relaxed and pliant and clearly too deep into his humanity to realize how cheesy he sounded just now, Haruka dropped his chin open to pull a kiss from him, shifting his weight to brace himself more comfortably against the bed as he pressed forward once for good measure before drawing his hips back out with an arch of his back. Rin inhaled sharply, gripping Haruka more fiercely, and Haruka winced from the tight, body-warm clench of muscle around his cock as he drew out as much as he could bear before sliding in again, more smoothly and less a sharp jolt than moments before. Once fully seated again, he paused, frozen as the sensation washed over him—through him—and into Rin before bouncing back like a ripple in a pond reflected by the shore. "... _Fuck_."

"I'll get to that," Rin parroted his own words back to him, though given the strain in his voice and the roughened tone, the effect was largely ruined. Rin must have thought to as well, for he snorted to himself, amused at the discrepancy, and initiated another kiss, drawing out the moment with a lingering suckle of Haruka's lower lip. "But feel free to step things up if the pace isn't to your liking." He then detached one arm from where it hung around Haruka's neck and let it fall between them, fingers curling lightly around his cock to palm it. "Race to see who can get the other off first?"

Haruka frowned. "...This isn't a competition."

"Those sound like the words of a man afraid to lo—" But he didn't get to finish his taunt, as Haruka slapped his hand away and gave a few rough jerks on his cock himself. "...Sure you can multitask, Nanase?"

"You said...there are things I'd be in charge of...and things you'd be in charge of." He gentled his strokes, sliding a slick thumb over the helmet before tracing the slit. "I'll be in charge of this..." He then gave a jerky short thrust which caused Rin to seize up. "...and _this_."

"And...what about me?"

Haruka shifted back onto his knees, bracing his free hand along Rin's thigh to keep them spread so that he had room to work. "You be in charge...of _coming undone_."

Rin quirked a smile and let his head fall back, taking a deep breath, and threw one hand over his head to grip the cool metal railing of the headboard. "Roger that."

It was easier, without Rin watching him—he felt compelled to lock eyes with Rin whenever he _watched_ , and Haruka just wanted to be background noise; he wanted to be there, of course, but he didn't want to be _right there_ , having to confront everything and deal with whatever he saw reflected in Rin's eyes. He let his own lids flutter shut, imagining the darkness to be not that of the Drift but that at the bottom of the pool, in the deep end of the natatorium. No inky black tendrils reaching out for him—just Haruka and Rin and the twenty-five-or-so square meters of this room. Beyond the darkness behind his eyes, he could hear their mingled panting, feel the heat radiating off of their sweat-slick skin, could smell the medicinal balm of the lotion and the rising tang of arousal—magnified by sensory deprivation, like being inside a pons unit. So maybe Rin was right; maybe this _was_ just a _Drift_ for them, second nature now and merely, like any other brush of skin against skin, closing that _circuit_. 

He swallowed thickly and dragged himself out long and shallow, until he could feel the chill snap of air against his tip, before sliding back in again and snapping forward with finality when he felt himself seat fully, enjoying the sound of their skin slapping together and the grunting whimper that worked its way from Rin's throat. When no reprimand against roughness came, he did it again, this time committing to a single pendulum motion with no pause on the outstroke, and by the time he was fully inside again, he was eager to repeat the rhythm, funneling his thoughts down to a few heady sensations: the almost uncomfortable warmth and tightness of being fully seated, and the burning draw over his shaft when he pulled out; the pleasant sting that came when he slammed in, skin welting where it slapped against Rin's thighs; a comfortable ache forming in his abs and lower back as he worked himself into a pistoning rhythm. 

Rin began to twist uncomfortably beneath him, back arching as he pushed himself into Haruka's hand, and he soothed him with a tutting hiss and began working his cock in earnest, grip firm and sure and uncomplicated; Rin was doing his part _beautifully_ , it was time for Haruka to do his. In between crescendoing thrusts and frenetic jerks of Rin's shaft, though, he took in the sights with a few stolen glances he couldn't convince himself to refrain from snatching—breaking his concentration on the task at hand in favor of catching glimpses of Rin with one arm thrown over his eyes, worrying at his lip again in between gasps and soft, whining murmurs that might have been Haruka's name or may have just been gibberish. On a particularly bone-jolting shudder, though, his arm fell away and his eyes flared open, a choked grunt sticking in his throat as he sought out Haruka's gaze—fixing him firmly when he finally found it. He'd been _caught_ , which ought to have been embarrassing—and was, on some level—but was mostly just arousing, and Rin's babbling grew more comprehensible now, a soup of begging and pleading that was fortified by an undercurrent of _urging_ vibrating along their thread. He wasn't _undone_ , not quite yet, but every fiber of his being clearly _wanted_ to be, and Haruka released his grip on Rin's cock, bracing his palm along Rin's jaw to tip it up as he slotted their lips together, tongue thrusting and searching, and redoubled his efforts. 

Any further mumbled urging was lost in the kiss, and if he'd felt his arousal or stamina fading in the least, the fatigue was obliterated by the way Rin jerked insistently on their Thread, each new tug in time with Haruka's cock sliding home that left him feeling like he'd finally penetrated the deepest layer, the _core_ of what made Rin _Rin_ , because on some level, he'd never quite been sure: was there anything truly _unique_ about him? Would he have felt the same attraction, utterly unchanged, if he'd passed the human boy Matsuoka Rin on the street? When did a clone stop being just a _clone_ and become an entity of its own? Was he succumbing to feelings for the _shell_ , or whatever it was that lay within?

 _"I like how I feel when I'm with you,"_ he'd said, and maybe that was all that mattered: whoever, whatever Rin was, the _here and now_ was what mattered, because soon enough, the present would become the past, which meant things that were good _now_ would become things that had _always been good_ , always been _right_ , and it wouldn't make any difference if Rin's feelings for him were nature-borne or nurture-imbued, they were there and real. Rin _wanted him_ , and he wanted Rin. Not the original, not the next clone off the line, but _this one_. This one was _his_.

And Rin must have felt him come to this conclusion, because his cries were getting breathier and more desperate now, and he'd brought his arms up to circle around Haruka's back and grip his shoulders, hands splayed wide. Haruka's chest was crushed against Rin's in his powerful embrace, making it harder to breathe than it already was, and he increased the pace of his thrusts, cadence quickening in time with the crescendo of Rin's own inarticulate babbling. "Y—ours, huh?" he managed with a flushed-cheek smile, and Haruka responded by fixing Rin's gaze with his own, making these last sliding jabs _count_.

Rin gave a sudden huff, starting, and buried his face in the crook of Haruka's shoulder, muffling the sharp whines that heralded his cresting orgasm. The grip on Haruka's shoulders turned white-knuckled, and Rin angled his hips to meet Haruka's final thrusts on one beat and rub himself off using the friction between their bodies on the next—his release washing over the both of them palpably both physically and mentally in stringy white spurts between their stomachs and spangles of pleasure buzzing electrically up and down the Thread, going straight to Haruka's hips. In an echoed response, Haruka hissed an unintelligible warning when he felt Rin's climax push him over into his own, head hanging low and lower half executing smooth pendulum thrusts as he spilled. He could feel his release coating his shaft, a secondary lubricant that foamed on the final few passes and left him thrusting into a tight, warm wetness that was all the more pleasurable because he knew what it _was_ slicking the way.

Rin's breathing was loud and labored, and his muscles trembled with the aftershocks of orgasm—raking a quick glance over him, his own vision a bit off-kilter as he came down from his high, Haruka supposed that this was a pretty passing rendition of being _undone_. "...So was it like taking a piss this time?"

Rin convulsed with a little shudder of laughter, the audible sounds of giggling following subsequently. "No...but I kind of feel like taking a shit right now." Haruka's less-than-thrilled reaction to the vulgarity must have shown on his face, for another snort of laughter followed this comment, and Rin rolled onto his side, waving Haruka off and out of him as he staggered to his feet, making motions of heading to the bathroom. He paused just inside the open doorway, cupping his hands under the running water of the sink before rubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. "You did good, Nanase. I'll save your performance review for the morning, out of courtesy." He flashed a sharp-toothed grin, and Haruka rolled his eyes.

Letting himself slump to the bed and being sure to angle his crotch so he didn't drip any leavings onto the futon, he watched Rin putter about in the bathroom, wiping himself down with a washcloth, before idly wondering aloud, "So how long do we have to wait?"

"Hm?" Rin called, then looked up from his wipedown as Haruka's question registered. "Wait? For what?"

"The baby."

Something clattered in the bathroom, and when Haruka glanced over, expression evenly schooled, he found Rin framed in the doorjamb, face an interesting mishmash of several different emotions at once. "The _baby_ —god _dammit_ Nanase, _I'm not getting pregnant._ "

"But Amakata-sensei said that—"

Rin whipped the handtowel he'd been using to dry off over a shoulder and rolled his eyes, strolling back into the bedroom proper with one hand on a hip and the other gesticulating animatedly. "For all I know, that was a load of bull she cooked up just to shit with me. Don't got taking her _seriously_ , geez." The towel slipped off his shoulders as he mounted the mattress again, half straddling Haruka and pressing a nuzzling kiss to his shoulder. "If you're so desperate for something cute to take care of, get a cat or something."

Haruka craned his neck to glance over his shoulder. "You like cats?"

Rin gave an amused huff before settling in more comfortably behind Haruka, resting on bent knees spread to either side of Haruka's as Rin eased him down belly-flat onto the bed, slipping the handtowel underneath and thereby stifling and protests Haruka might have been tempted to mount. "At least no one would look at us twice if we showed up with a _cat_ out of the blue one day. Besides, I can't have a kid—" He leaned forward to whisper into Haruka's ear, voice softening, "I just started sleeping with this guy and a baby would _totally_ kill the mood..." He twisted around at the waist, reaching for Haruka's cramped ankle, and began massaging it through the sports tape. "You know what they say; no one likes a half-kaiju clone with baggage."

"I do," Haruka responded matter-of-factly.

A smile curled at Rin's mouth, tight-lipped to keep from breaking into a goofy grin. "Flirt." He twisted back around frontways, concentrating his focused rubbing on Haruka's lower back and obliques now, and while he hadn't felt any discomfort at the time, he could sense the beginnings of muscle soreness being expertly massaged away. "Shouldn't make comments like that in the middle of your refractory period." Rin executed a shallow, dragging thrust that drew his cock achingly slowly along the inside of Haruka's thigh and over the rise of his ass, blood plumping it to a semi-erect state by the time he reached the top of the cleft. "Though I'm always up to a challenge."

"Challenge?" And now Rin's cock was _definitely_ well on its way to hard again, probing enough to make his intentions known, and Haruka reached behind to bat him away, twisting to see over his shoulder. " _Oi_ , what're you doing?"

Rin snickered but retreated, balls heavy and warm where they hung against Haruka's thigh as Rin straddled him. "You _said_ I was welcome to try," Rin reminded primly, drawing obscene pictures on the globe of one cheek with his finger. "Should I try _harder_?" He delivered this comment with a raised brow, and Haruka glanced away reflexively, folding his arms underneath his chin. Rin drew back, sitting straight. "Oi—what're you pissed about."

"I'm _not_ —" he started, then huffed in irritation. "Never mind."

" _No_ no no no." He got onto all fours here and leaned forward, knocking his head against Haruka's. "Don't make me go find it myself." Haruka gave him a sharp, reproving look, and Rin pulled back again, hands raised defensively. "Kidding! But for fuck's sake—I do feel a _little_ entitled to know why you're acting like I just asked if I could shove the Marshal's dress sabre up your ass and not my dick."

Haruka resisted through a long pause, before finally allowing in a petulant mutter, "...Didn't it feel good?" He hated that he felt like he had to _ask_ , but the way Rin was behaving right now, it almost felt like nothing more than a trade-off; he liked to think he didn't get overly sentimental or emotional about this sort of thing, but there was something a bit too cavalier about Rin just _mounting up_ like this barely five minutes after they'd finished. He was still processing, but Rin looked ready to move on to the next challenge.

Rin fixed him with a quizzical look, a bemused smile on his lips. "...Of course? Should I be _more_ vocal about it next time?" He snorted softly. "You want me to fluff your ego a little, there? Cause _you_ may have issues with dirty talk, but I've got an _arsenal_ of descriptors at my disposal and would be more than honored to share them with you." Then something seemed to click—and understanding dawned on his features, expression gentling. "...Hey, what—you think _that's_ why I want to fuck you now? Revenge or some shit?" He rolled his eyes and lightly slapped the curve of the bare ass he straddled. "My _dearest_ Nanase-san, the reason I want to fuck you is because you told me you want me to _get what I want_. And now that I've come undone, I _really_ want to see _you_ come undone, too." He leaned forward, listing to the side to whisper in Haruka's ear. "I know you felt it, before, through me—but it's _completely_ different in the flesh. I want you to feel it too—I want to _share it_ with you." And maybe it all made _sense_ —because wasn't sharing this sensation, this experience, just doing what Rin had been bred to do: feed his experiences back into those he was connected to, to _share_ everything? Haruka was his 'collective' now, and Rin wanted to _teach him_ —on a biologically instinctual level at least. He also quite probably wanted to just ruffle Haruka's feathers as well.

Haruka gave an irritated huff, not ready to give in just yet. "...Well it's not happening right now, so don't get any ideas." Rin allowed a sing-song _yes sir_ with little gravity, kissing him on the shoulder and continuing to lazily drag his cock along the cleft of Haruka's ass. He could feel his own cock nestled snugly beneath them start to stir again—hardly surprising given that Rin was fully aroused once again and flirting the line of propriety, seemingly intent on testing just how far Haruka would let him go. He shifted to ease the growing discomfort, and while he couldn't see Rin's face anymore, he could feel the thrum of victory like a deep, soft bass. The weight on his thighs lightened for a moment as Rin leaned away to reach for something, and when he settled down again, the weight was accompanied by the cool slick slide of lotion on the back of his thighs—the same lotion _he'd_ lubed up with earlier. He started to twist around, a sharp protest ready on his tongue, when Rin pressed his forehead against Haruka's spine, holding him down with his weight and murmuring into his skin. "Just...like this. For now. If I'm yours, I want you to be mine, too." Haruka felt his heart thud double-time in his chest, realization dawning as the tip of Rin's cock pressed into the warm, narrow space between Haruka's thighs, just at the base of his own cock. With a great deal more self-control than Haruka had demonstrated, he slowly started to slide in when no further protest came. " _Haru_."

Maybe he wanted a heartfelt _Rin_ in return, but Haruka couldn't manage it—could never have, even if he'd been blessed with full control over his faculties. Instead, he compensated with a stifled moan and arched his back a hair, to give Rin an easier seat to slide into. The tip and shaft brushed in sequence over the sensitive strech of skin behind his sack, bumping suggestively until Rin pulled back out with a relieved hiss. Out of sympathy and the tiniest sliver of guilt for forcing Rin to wait, he clenched his thigh muscles and received an appreciative grunt in response.

"...So it's better than this, huh?"

"...What do you think?" Rin, of course, just wanted to hear him _say_ it, but Haruka was having enough trouble concentrating on the swell of his own cock, which twitched insistently at every pass of Rin's tip over his balls. The lotion was an uncomfortably greasy sensation, but the warm pressure of Rin against his back and the drag of flesh against flesh and that familiar slap of skin connecting all worked in concert to make it easy to slide his consciousness past the less savory elements and focus on the parts he was now committing to memory: Rin's mantra of _Haru Haru Haru_ in an entirely new context now; hands firm on his hips, snapping him back to meet Rin's thrusts; and the sharp jab of arousal that shot up his shaft on every pass. 

Rin reached around underneath Haruka, fingers groping for his shaft now, and he hissed a warning not to—relaxing the muscles in his legs to Rin's protests (and trying not to collapse altogether) as he shifted up to his knees and promptly flipped himself over. Not pausing long enough to give Rin cause to demand an explanation, he snapped a hand out and gripped Rin's wrist tightly, drawing him close and introducing Rin's hand to his shaft, until they settled chest to chest again—and then began a slow, shallow thrust to drag their cocks alongside each other in a far more satisfying joining than moments ago. 

"Thought I was supposed to get what I wanted...?"

"So you don't want this?"

Rin snorted and shook his head, jerking his hand free to slip down and grab a handful of Haruka's ass. "I said _no_ such thing." And if he objected to being denied the immediate opportunity to decorate the insides of Haruka's thighs with his release, he didn't show it, instead taking advantage of their new position to slot their lips together, worrying at Haruka's lip in much the same way he'd worried his own when roles had been reversed, as he made short work of the erections between them. Between the slick friction of fingers and shafts sliding in concert and the lingering fatigue of previous orgasms, it wasn't long before they peaked a second time, the both of them seizing and spurting across Rin's hand, albeit with less impressive releases and a greater languor washing over them; there would be no trips to the bathroom this time to wash up immediately after the deed, Haruka mused.

Rin was the first to flop down onto his back unceremoniously, wiping his semen-stained hand across his bare stomach and grinning up at the ceiling. "Okay, I gotta admit—that was _nothing_ like taking a piss."

Haruka settled onto his back more delicately, still wary of overtaxing his muscles—he'd have to dig around in the literature and alter his training regimen to help toughen up some new muscle families. "Good. Or I might have had questions about your restroom habits."

Rin snorted, no longer bothering to hide his amusement, and shifted onto his side to support himself on one elbow, brows raised. "So...? Did I 'make you come undone'?"

Haruka blinked slowly, choosing his words carefully. "...I don't suppose I _feel_ in one piece anymore..."

Releasing a triumphant bark of laughter, Rin clapped his hands. "I'm gonna count that one as a _win_ then—which makes the score now _three_ wins out of twelve rounds." He waved a finger in Haruka's face. "I'm catching up, Nanase~"

Brows cinching in offense, Haruka bit out, "How is that fair? We both had a turn—it should be out of thirteen rounds, in that case." Why he was even going along with this ridiculous competition of Rin's was beyond him at the moment, but he would not take this entirely fictitious and trumped-up beating lying down.

Rin tutted softly. "Maybe, but I _wanted_ it. So it wasn't a challenge—it's no fun if I just _hand_ you the win, right?" He raised his brows, inviting agreement, and evidently took Haruka's silence as a sign he wasn't quite convinced yet. "How about this—new game: we make each other _want_ things we never realized were possible."

Keeping his features stony and his tone matter-of-fact, Haruka reminded, "Then I seem to be at a distinct disadvantage, as you're clearly up for _anything_."

If he expected Rin to take offense at this remark, though, he was sorely mistaken, for Rin just crowed, "Admitting defeat already, Nanase?"

And the sly glint in his eyes _did it_ , for Haruka raised a hand to shake on the agreed-upon terms, feeling echoes of Rin thrumming within him as he felt a competitive spirit rise up: "Never."


End file.
